pope's hands are shaking as he unlocks the front door.
he can still hear baz's voice in his headâcold, cutting, deliberate. "nobody will ever have a kid with you." the words loop over and over, mixing with the sound of deran barking orders, smurf's disappointed sigh when he hesitated on the job. they'd used him like a weapon today. pointed him at a problem and expected him to solve it without question, without feeling.
he's so tired of being a tool. so tired of being nothing.
the house is quiet when he steps inside. warm. safe. hers.
he doesn't bother with the lights. doesn't say anything. he just stripsâjacket, shirt, jeansâleaving them in a pile by the door. his body aches. his ribs are bruised from where someone shoved him into a wall. his knuckles are split. but none of that matters right now.
all that matters is her.
you're in bed, propped up against the pillows with your phone in hand. the soft glow of the screen lights up your face, and when you see him, your expression shifts. concern, love, worry all at once.
"andrew...?" your voice is soft, careful.
he doesn't respond. can't. he just crawls into bed beside you and pulls you close, burying his face in your chest. you smell like home. like safety. like everything good he doesn't deserve but desperately needs.
"andy..." you try again, hand coming up to stroke his hair.
he won't raise his head. can't look at you. if he does, he'll break. so he just inhales âbreathes you in like your the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. the stress slowly rolls off him in waves, replaced by the steady rhythm of your heartbeat beneath his ear.
you'd been waiting up for him. waiting to tell him something. but right now, all you can do is hold him.
after a moment, he starts kissing down your bodyâslow, reverent. your collarbone. the swell of your breast. stomach. he needs this. needs you. needs to feel something other than the emptiness clawing at his chest.
"baby..." you coo softly, fingers threading through his hair.
"i need you," he whispers against your skin, his voice breaking. "please?"
you nod, hand cupping his cheek. "okay. okay, andy."
he warms you up slowly. kissing, touching, coaxing soft sounds from your lips until you're ready. then he positions you on your stomach, pulling your hips up slightly as he lines himself up behind you.
prone bone. his favorite. he can cover you completely, hold you close, feel every inch of you beneath him.
he slides in slowly, groaning at the tight heat of youâ
"w-wait!"
he freezes immediately, panting hard. the restraint is killing him. every muscle in his body is screaming to move, to take, to lose himself in you. but he stops.
"what?" his voice is strained, desperate.
you look back at him over your shoulder, face flushed, eyes wide and blown. "iâ" you hesitate. "i got my IUD out today..."
he stops. completely stops. his brain short-circuits. "...what?"
"my birth control device," you clarify softly. "i got it out."
he stares at you like you just grew three heads. his heart is pounding so hard he thinks it might burst out of his chest. "are youâ" he swallows hard. "do you need me to grab some condoms?"
his hand is already reaching for the nightstand when you grab his arm.
"no," you say firmly, your eyes locked on his. "i just wanted you to know... no more birth control."
his eyes shoot open. he goes pale. is she serious? is sheâdoes she meanâ
"are you serious?" is all he can manage to get out.
"of course, andrew," you whisper, voice so full of love it makes his chest ache. "i love you."
something inside him breaks.
he doesn't say anything. can't. his hands are trembling as they slide up your sides, reverent and slow. he starts movingâso slow at first it's almost torture. every inch he sinks deeper feels like coming home. like finding something he didn't know he'd been searching for his entire life.
"fuck," he breathes, voice cracking. "you feelâgod, you feel so good."
his hips roll forward, deliberate and deep, and he leans down to press his lips to your shoulder blade. then your spine. then the curve of your neck. he's kissing you everywhere he can reach, soft and desperate, like he's trying to memorize the taste of your skin.
"you mean it?" he whispers against your shoulder, his voice so small it breaks your heart. "you really mean it?"
"yes," you gasp, pushing back against him. "yes, andy. i mean it."
he makes this soundâhalf sob, half moanâand his grip on your hips tightens. "i'm gonna-" his voice breaks. "i'm gonna put a baby in you. gonna make you mine. really mine."
"i'm already yours," you whisper, and that does it.
his pace picks up, still controlled but more desperate now. his hands slide up your body, one wrapping around your waist to pull you closer, the other sliding up to cup your breast. he's covering you completely, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.
"tell me again," he begs, his hips snapping forward harder now. "tell me you want this. tell me you want me."
"i want you," you gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets. "i want this. i want everything with you, andrew."
tears are streaming down his face now, dripping onto your shoulder as he fucks you deeper, harder. every thrust is punctuated by a broken sound. a whimper, a gasp, a choked sob. he's falling apart above you, inside you, and he doesn't care.
"gonna make me a daddy, baby?" he chokes out, his voice wrecked and raw. "gonna let me put a baby in you? let me fill you up?"
"yes," you cry out, your whole body trembling. "yes, andyâpleaseâ"
"fuck," he sobs, his movements becoming erratic. "i love you. i love you so much. you'reâyou're everything. you're everything."
he pulls out suddenly, and before you can protest, he's flipping you onto your back. he needs to see your face. needs to look into your eyes when he does this.
"need to see you," he whispers, settling between your thighs. his hands frame your face, thumbs brushing away the tears you didn't realize were falling. "need to see you when iâwhen weâ"
you nod, pulling him down into a kiss. it's messy and desperate, all tongue and teeth and shared breath. he slides back inside you with a groan that sounds like relief, like coming home, like everything he's ever needed.
"look at me," he whispers, his forehead pressed to yours. "please, baby. look at me."
you open your eyes and meet his gazeâthose beautiful, broken eyes swimming with tears and love and desperate need.
"i'm here," you whisper, your hands cupping his face. "i'm right here, andy."
he starts moving again, slow and deep, his eyes never leaving yours. every thrust is deliberate, purposeful. he's making love to you like it's the first time. like it's the last time. like it's the only thing that matters in the entire world.
"you're so beautiful," he breathes, his voice thick with emotion. "so fucking beautiful. and you're mine. you're gonna have my baby. you're gonnaâ" his voice breaks. "you're gonna make me a dad."
"yes," you whisper, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. "yes, andy. you're gonna be such a good dad. the best dad."
he's crying openly now, his face buried in your neck as he moves inside you. every thrust is desperate, emotional, raw. he's pouring everything into youâ all his pain, his fear, his love, his hope. you're the only good thing in his life.
the only thing that makes sense. the only thing that's ever made him feel like he's worth something.
"i love you," he sobs against your skin, his hips snapping forward harder now. "i love you. i love you. i love you."
"i love you too," you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. "so much, andy. so much."
his hand slides between your bodies, finding that sensitive spot that makes you arch into him. "need you to come with me," he whispers desperately. "need to feel you. need to know you're here. that this is real."
"it's real," you promise, your voice breaking. "i'm here. i'm yours."
his fingers work you expertly, and combined with the deep, desperate thrusts, you're falling apart beneath him. "andyâi'mâ"
"i know, baby," he whispers, his voice wrecked. "i know. let go. i got you. i got you."
you come with a cry, your whole body trembling and clenching around him. the sensation pushes him over the edge, and he buries himself as deep as he can go, his whole body shaking as he spills inside you.
"fuckâfuckâ" he sobs, his hips still moving in shallow, desperate thrusts. "take it. take all of it. gonna fill you up. gonna give you everything."
he's crying so hard he can barely breathe, his face buried in your neck, his arms wrapped around you so tight it almost hurts. but you hold him just as tight, your fingers running through his hair, whispering soft reassurances against his temple.
"i got you," you whisper. "i got you, andy. you're okay. we're okay."
"you're gonna be such a good dad," you whisper, voice breaking. "you're gonna be amazing."
he comes with a broken cry, spilling deep inside, his whole body shaking. he collapses on top of you, still buried inside, his arms wrapped around you like he's afraid you'll disappear.
you stay like that for a long timeâtangled together, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync.
finally, he pulls out slowly and rolls onto his side, pulling you with him. you turn to face him, hand coming up to cup his cheek. his face is wet with tears, his eyes red and puffy.
"you're important, andrew," you say softly, thumb brushing away his tears. "you're so important. to me. to our future. you're not what they say you are."
he closes his eyes, fresh tears spilling over. "baz saidâ"
"i don't care what baz said," you cut him off firmly. "he's wrong. you're going to be an incredible father. you're kind. you're protective. you love so deeply it scares you. and that babyâour babyâis going to be so lucky to have you."
he breaks again, sobbing into your shoulder as you hold him close. "i don't deserve you," he chokes out.
"yes, you do," you whispers, kissing his forehead. "you deserve everything good, andy. and i'm going to spend the rest of my life proving that to you."
he clings to you, his face buried in your neck, and for the first time all dayâ
maybe all weekâhe feels like he can breathe.
"i love you," he whispers.
"i love you too," you whispers back, fingers stroking through his hair. "so much."
and in that moment, wrapped up in your arms, he believes you.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
summary: âI would die for you, I would kill for you. Well, I would be kind for you. I would reject the impulses to indulge in my violent nature for you. Sure, I can be strong if I have to. But when I think about the way that I love you it does not make me feel violent. It makes me feel quiet, and gentle.â
content/warnings: NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY! violence towards reader, sex work, threat of sexual violence, cheating, light stalking, voyeurism, age gap, sex, oral sex (m & f receiving), thigh riding, fingering
wc: 7k
notes: hope you enjoy my probably ooc popey...literally have been writing this all day so you better all like it!
Pope Cody isn't a violent dog. He doesn't know why he bites.
You've always known this. Maybe the only person who's seen him like this.
You've known Pope most of your life. You remember the first time you came over to the Cody house. You must have been around eleven or twelve, all knobbly knees and teeth too big for your mouth. You never believed Deran Cody had a pool. People in Oceanside, people like you and the Codys, didn't have pools.
So off you follow him after school one day, hair in pigtails, wearing your dungaree shorts and a little floral t-shirt. You squeal in delight when you see the pool.
The pool is how you become a mainstay as a part of Craig and Deran's little crew. You'd never admit that you actually like hanging out with them. They don't care that you live in a shithole apartment; they don't care that your mother turns tricks to feed her drug addiction. They don't tease you for it like the other kids. They just care that you like to surf and swim and you can cry on command, so if they get caught swiping a wallet or a beer, you just turn on the waterworks.
You're good at pickpocketing. Had to be. Your mother was usually too strung out to feed you. So you learned how to cook young. Learned how to steal even younger. There's never been a lock that you couldn't pick. You fit perfectly in with the Codys.
But Smurf loves to cook. She loves these big family meals. Doesn't mind when more kids arrive to eat at the table. Most days you're there having dinner in between Craig and Deran. They eat like the place is going out of business. You're just happy to be eating a proper meal.
But it's not until you're sixteen, when you arrive at the Cody house with a rucksack and a busted lip that you officially move in. One of Smurf's strays.
First there was Baz, then Cath, then Lucy. More will come. More will go.
"What's wrong, sweetie?" she asks you when she sees your little face.
"My mom," you say with a sniff. "She wants me to...She doesn't think I should be giving it away for free. Thinks she can pimp me out to her Johns too. I don't...I don't wanna do that. I've never had sex before. I don't want it to be like that."
Smurf strokes your hair and lets you cry in her arms. Sure, your mom fucking sucked, but this? Pimping out her own daughter? That was low even for her. Instead, you move you into Julia's old room. Smurf likes having a girl back in the house, she tells you. Cath and Baz have moved out. Lucy has gone back down to Mexico. You don't really care. You have food on the table, three meals a day, you have a roof over your head, and you won't have to bar your door closed in case some creep tried to walk in.
You have Pope Cody watching out for you. He's like Smurf's watchdog. And he watches out for her strays too.
Cath watches you in the pool with Craig, Deran, Adrien and Renn one summer afternoon. She frowns, "How fucked up does your life have to be that Smurf's house of horrors is a haven?"
Baz kisses the top of her head, reminding her, "Was for you."
Cath hums in response, watching the five of you, reminds her of being sixteen again. Her and Baz, Julia and Pope...and Lucy. Of course, Lucy. She watches you as you lean against the side of the pool to speak to Smurf. Cath has been burnt by Smurf; she's hoping this time is different. That you don't attract the attention of her boys the way she did.
"You think you're gonna be like my Lucy and Cath?" Craig asks you later that evening as you share a joint at the beach.
You and Renn look at each other and make a face. You know Renn and Craig have been sleeping together. You have no interest in Craig. No offence. But he's too loud, too desperate for attention, too much of a class clown.
You thought maybe you had a crush on Deran, but then you realised, even if you did, that he had no interest in you. Or any other girl, for that matter. You see the way he looks at Adrien...and how Adrien looks at him.
"I still don't understand why everyone is in love with Baz," you confess making a face. Even Julia!
"Well it's either that or Pope," Craig points out.
You shrug as you take a drag, "At least Pope can do his own laundry."
Pope Cody has been watching you. Of course, he loves his little brothers. But they're idiots. And he doesn't want you to get mixed up like his sister or Lucy or even Cath. You could have a good life, he thinks. Get out of this shit hole.
He's seen how you hole up in your room with your homework. He's taken your books out of your bag when you're sleeping. You're getting straight As. So he goes to Smurf.
"This kid could go to college," he tells her one night.
"And what does that get us, baby?" she asks as she sips the vodka cranberry that Pope made her.
He shrugs, screwing up his face.
"You think cos her mother lives in the shit hole, that Julia does that you're saving your sister, baby? Your sister made her choices. She picked drugs over you," she coos softly. "Sending this girl to college won't change that."
He sniffs, hard.
"She's smart, Smurf. She'd owe you as well. You could suggest law school. Business school. And then she could work for you. It'd be good to have her," he argues.
Smurf hums as she takes a drag of her cigarette.
"She owes me anyway, baby. For letting her live here. Her mother wanted her to pimp her out. Screw guys for her to get another fix. Do you know that? That sweet thing being pimped out by her own mother!" she says, shaking her head.
The Codys love to party. Every other night, there's a party in the house. Pope doesn't live there anymore. He has his own place, thankfully. It's peaceful. But sometimes Smurf wants everyone to be there. And while Pope Cody is a grown man, he's smart enough not to cross his mother.
He watches from the edge of the pool as his brothers splash around in the water. He frowns, however, when Craig pulls out a bag of coke. He watches as your face freezes. Pope moves without thinking, grabbing your arm and all but hauling you out of the pool.
"You stay away from that shit," he snarls at you.
Pope doesn't talk, especially not to you. He was more of a guard dog. Sometimes he'll walk you to school. Well, walk behind you to school. You pretend you don't know you're being followed. Craig has graduated...well, dropped out. And Deran's busy with surfing now. And sometimes Pope noticed you needed a bit of extra protection. So he would walk a few steps behind you on your way to school.
But he never spoke. And you didn't mind. Didn't mind having your guard dog.
But sometimes Pope snapped, like a trapped dog. And when he saw his stupid brothers wave that bag in front of your face, he just saw Julia. Throwing her life away. And he wasn't gonna let you do it too.
"Ouch, Pope!" you snap as he grips you. "I'm not frying my brain with your dumbass brothers. Don't worry."
You weren't going to. While no one else who lived here finished school, you knew you needed to get out of Oceanside. You could go to community college. It didn't matter, you didn't need anything fancy. You just needed to give yourself a future. You weren't gonna turn out like your mother. And while the Codys lived like royalty, you knew that their money didn't come legit.
You wanted to be legit.
One day on your walk home from school, you're pulled into an alleyway and a man slams you against the wall.
"Your bitch of a mother owes me," he snarls at you. "I hear you're hanging around the Codys now. You got money right?"
You shake your head. You don't have shit. And you're so fucking scared. You know the boys taught you some self-defence, but fuck, when it was happening, you couldn't think. Especially after he smacked your head against the wall. He smacks you, right across the face, hard enough you can feel your burst.
"Well if you ain't got money. I'm sure we can figure something else out," he snarls.
This is enough to get your brain to turn on. You knee him right between the legs, this at least has him stumbling backwards. You lunge yourself forward, smashing your forehead against his nose. And then you run.
You run faster than you ever had in your life. You don't stop until you run into a wall of muscle - Pope Cody.
"What happened to you?" he hisses, seeing the blood trickling down your forehead and your split lip.
You just burst into tears and tell him. He sends you into Smurf to get patched up. Later that night as you eat dinner by the pool, you watch Pope come back in. His knuckles are bruised up and his eyes are almost black. You don't question it.
You notice Pope starts walking behind you when you're on your way home from school, too.
Smurf's beaming when you walk out of your bedroom in your gown and cap.
"My first kid to graduate from high school," she coos as she cups your face.
"That's cos she was almost grown before she got here," Baz said with that cocky smirk he always wore.
"Thank you, Smurf," you say, ignoring Baz as always. Piece of shit.
You'd been living under her roof for two years. You were aware that she wanted you to repay her. And you would. But you weren't gonna start running jobs for her. Anyway, despite what she said, you weren't family. She would never trust you, not fully.
"Are you comin' to my graduation?" you ask her with a small smile.
"Of course, sweetheart. I wouldn't miss it. Would we Baz?" she says fixing your hair as she speaks. "This is such a pretty dress, baby. Where did you get it?"
You look down at the dress you're wearing and back up at Smurf.
"It fell in my bag," you try giving her a smile.
"Those sticky fingers are going to get you in trouble," she responds but twirls you around. "But I'm going to have to borrow this from you."
Of course, with a graduation comes a party. And Cody parties are legendary, so everyone is in the house. You're sitting by the pool, sipping on a beer, watching the boys wrestle underwater. You've swapped your graduation dress for a bikini. You stand up, the shells on your anklet jingling as you walk, to get another beer.
You wince when you feel a sharp smack on your ass as you walk towards the bar.
"Hey, pretty girl. Why don't you come sit on my lap?" a friend of a friend of Craig's coos.
You roll your eyes and keep walking, but he sits up and grabs your wrist, trying to physically pull you onto his knee. This time you don't have to fight because Pope has punched this guy across the face. He moves to get up and retaliate, but Pope is on top of him.
"Pope! Enough! Pope!" you yell. "Andrew!"
He immediately stops, sniffs, looks at you before going back inside. The whole thing has caught Smurf's attention. Her eyes narrow as she watches Pope listen to you. Interesting.
You jump when you go to your bedroom and see Pope sitting there in silence, just looking at the wall.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" you ask, folding your arms over your body.
Pope stands and walks to you. He presses a wad of cash into your hand.
"For college. You leave. You don't come back," he says. "Get a place for yourself. Disappear."
That's what you do. You don't go straight away. But you tell Smurf you got into an early graduate programme. And you pack your shit, one rucksack and you move out of Oceanside.
You follow Deran's surf career. He burns out at twenty. You're not surprised. He took it seriously... but Craig didn't. And if Craig was fucking around so was Deran.
Then you hear about a job gone wrong. Andrew "Pope" Cody is behind bars. You frown. You don't know why; you haven't seen him since you were eighteen. Five years ago now. But the idea that Pope might not be around to save you when someone gets too handsy or too aggressive doesn't sit right with you. You felt safer knowing that Pope was around.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?" your boyfriend asks, kissing your cheek.
You shake you head, "Nothing. Nothing."
You've left Oceanside, left San Diego. You've moved to Santa Monica after college. You worked in a bank, finance, hedge funds, all that shit. You were bringing in money you could have only dreamed of as a kid. And you had your boyfriend, rich, painfully rich.
You don't think of Oceanside again for almost four years. Until you get a phone call. Your mother has died. Your now fiancĂŠ tries to comfort you. You don't need comforting. You hadn't thought of her as your mother for over a decade.
"You never talk about family," he says as he strokes your hair.
"I don't have family," is all your reply.
But you pack a suitcase and go back to Oceanside to bury your mother. No one else will.
"Oh sweetheart," you hear just hours after you arrive back, the voice sending shivers up your spine.
"Smurf," you say with a small smile.
You had the funeral home set up a memorial for the day you arrived. The funeral will happen the day after. You asked your fiancĂŠ not to come. So you're standing alone in your designer black dress and the huge engagement ring sparkling on your finger. And Smurf notices.
"Look at you. All grown up. I'm sorry about your mother," she says crossing the room to hug you.
You allow it. You suppose you don't have any bad blood with Smurf. But you're older, wiser. You don't trust her.
"You know she wasn't much of a mother," you say.
You really should be smarter, but somehow you're sitting in the Cody house for dinner. You've changed out of the black dress; it felt gauche. Instead, you slip into a pair of jean shorts and a tank top. You look like you did a decade ago. Except your hair is perfectly styled, your makeup is flawless, and you have a massive engagement ring on your finger.
"That is a sparkler," Smurf says as you help her with the dinner. "Must be an impressive guy."
You shrug, "Bigger isn't always better."
You, of course, loved your fiancĂŠ at one point. But a part of you thinks you might have fallen in love with the idea of having a steady family. A family that loves you rather than the man himself.
"Holy shit!" you hear, turning to see Craig and Deran standing in the door way.
"We never thought we'd see you again," Deran says, wrapping his arms around you and picking you up.
You smile and tug Deran's long hair.
"Okay surfer boy. Look at you, look at you both all grown up," you say with a smile.
You hate to admit it, but you missed them. You bring the food out, meeting Smurf's grandson, J and his girlfriend, Nicky. Recently reconciled, you realise.
"I was one of Smurf's strays too," you tell her with a smile as you clean up. "Just don't get too caught up with the Cody boys."
"Did you..." she begins but you shake your head.
"Only friends. Never touched 'em. You don't know where they've been," you say.
It's in this moment when Craig walks in, "No she only ever had eyes for Pope."
You can feel your face go red and you shake your head.
"Pope useda walk her to school like a bodyguard and everything. She would point her finger at someone, and Pope would just fuckin' wail on 'em," he continued.
"That's not true," you hiss at him. "But I'm gonna wail on you now if you don't shut up."
You look up as the door opens and Pope Cody is standing there. In all his glory. He's bulked out. His skin is covered in freckles. Were his eyes always that intense?
"Thought you were in jail," you say in way of greeting.
"Thought I told you to stay away," he says before walking past into the back of the house.
"Look I should get going. I have the funeral in the morning," you say as you hand Craig the cloth to keep drying.
Smurf takes this moment to enter.
"Oh no, sweetheart. Let me make up your old room. You can stay here," she tells you, stroking your hair. Just like old times.
You haven't booked a hotel yet. You weren't thinking when you came down. You didn't have a home here anymore. So that's how you end up sleeping in your old bedroom. In Julia's bedroom. Well, not sleeping. You can't sleep. You eventually decide to get up and get a water. You jump when you open the door, and Pope is there.
"Were you...like standing guard?" you ask as you look up at him.
Pope hasn't seen you in almost ten years. He told you to leave. He told you not to come back. You could make something of yourself. And clearly you have. You look rich. But when you look up at him, and you're scowling up at him, you look like that kid from Oceanside.
"You come into this house with that ring and expect to walk away unscathed?" he asks.
You roll your eyes and walk out. He follows you, like a puppy, his eyes dipping down to the swell of your ass. You're only wearing an oversized sleepshirt. You've grown up, your body swelling with womanly curves. And Pope digs his nails into the palms of his hands.
"Smurf told me about Julia," you say as you fill a glass with water. "I'm sorry Pope. I know she meant a lot to you."
You turn to see the way his face has contorted. He's trying not to cry.
"When did you get out?" you ask. "I saw on the news that you..."
Pope doesn't flirt. He's never flirted. Not really. So you don't expect him to say, "You keeping tabs on me?"
You roll your eyes and duck your head, looking into your glass.
You rarely spoke to Pope when you were kid. Why would you? There was 10 years between you. But now? Now it doesn't seem that important because you realise you like talking to Pope. He's not as loud as his other brothers. He lets you talk. He listens. You talk about life in Santa Monica. You tell him about your fiancĂŠ.
"And he didn't come to your mother's funeral?" Pope asks as you sit by the pool watching the sun come up.
"I didn't want him to. Didn't think some rich kid would fit in in Oceanside. But now I see it's all...Bitcoin guys and AirBnBs. Things have really changed," you say.
"But I don't want him to see this side of me. I don't want Craig and Deran to...go all Cody on him."
You close your eyes as you hear him inhale.
"Shouldn't the person you're going to marry know you. All of you?" he asks.
You look at him then, "What if I don't like all of me?"
Pope doesn't know what to say so he just looks at the sunrise with you.
You let Smurf drive you to the funeral. You smooth down your black dress, swearing as your designer heels sink into the grass. Shoulda worn wedges. Your eyes flick up when you hear a car arrive. Everyone who should be here is here. Your eyes widen when you see your fiancĂŠ make your way towards you.
Pope watches as he kisses you, stiffens as he watches it happen. This rich prick doesn't deserve to kiss you. But he has to shake his head, shake that thought away.
"You said you didn't have any family," your fiancĂŠ says as he looks at the group of men who surround you. "And you've got like five brothers."
You go to shake your head but Smurf has her hand on your shoulder.
"You never mentioned your brothers to your future husband?" she says with a pout. She goes around and introduces everyone.
Andrew. Baz. Craig. Deran. J.
You don't even know J! But suddenly he's your brother. And you're not in the mood for this. So you just stand and listen to the priest talk about your mother. You watch them lower the coffin into the ground. And then you walk off.
"Baby, are you bringing your handsome boy back to the house?" Smurf calls after you.
You give her a smile over your shoulder, trying to convince him to go to his hotel. That you're tired. That you're distraught. But he wants to go to the Cody place. Already enamoured by their boyish charm. How could he not be? Rich people loved to slum it!
"Don't say I didn't warn ya," you say then as you let him drive you over to the house.
You let him get swept up with Baz and Craig and Deran. You go back to your bedroom and look up when the door opens with Pope standing there.
"Do you want to go for a swim?" you ask him. "At the beach?"
He sniffs and nods his head. Funerals make him think of Julia. He doesn't really swim. But he gets changed and drives you to the beach.
"I didn't ask him to come," you say once you get to the beach. "And you know your brothers are gonna fleece him. He's gonna blab about his big fuckin' summer house and then you're gonna go do a job."
Pope's head snaps to you.
"I'm not stupid. I know what you Cody boys do. You went to jail for it," you remind him.
You don't know how long you spend in the water. You just know that you're starving when you come back. Pope is trying not to watch how your body moves in your bikini. He wonders why you packed a bikini if you were just coming to the funeral. Or maybe you didn't. Maybe it was from when you were a kid.
When you get back, the other Cody boys and your fiancĂŠ are nowhere to be seen. You close your eyes and pinch your nose. Of course. You're not going to lick his wounds when they rob him. You go take a shower.
You can feel Pope's eyes on you, and you don't know why, but you don't close the door to the bathroom fully. You let him watch as you strip out of your bikini and step into the shower. You know he hasn't taken his eyes off you as you wash the saltwater off you. When you turn the shower off, your eyes finally meet Pope's. You don't drop his gaze until Pope looks away and rushes off.
You know you shouldn't do it. Especially as your engagement ring sparkles under the fluorescent lights. You walk into your bedroom and get dressed in denim shorts and a tank top. You look at your hairstyling tools and ignore them. It's only been a day but Oceanside is seeping back into your body.
When you wake up the next morning, your fiancĂŠ still isn't back. You make breakfast and sit by the pool waiting. Eventually, they come back. Looking worse for wear.
"Baby," you coo when you see him walk in. "I just found out that I have to take care of business here. You know it's a bit messier when your mother ODs. Why don't you go back, and I'll follow you in a few days?"
He's too drunk to argue. You manage to get him into an Uber and send him back to your apartment in Santa Monica. You squeeze your eyes shut. And you storm straight into Craig's room. You start pummelling him with your fists. It doesn't hurt. He's huge.
"What the fuck? You nutcase!" he groans.
"Gimme whatever shit you took from him," you snap.
"I didn't take shit. He paid for everything last night. Not my fault," he yells pushing you off him.
You land on your ass on the floor, but you're back up in seconds, hitting Craig again.
"You're wearing his fuckin' watch!" you yell. "Where the fuck did you take him? Coked up off your fuckin' tits."
Craig grabs your arms and pins you down so you stop.
"He flashed all that cash. He showed off his watch and he told us all about you working in a bank. You trying to bait us huh?" he asks.
You kick him right between the legs sending him reeling back.
"I can smell the strip club off you!" you screech.
"Well, someone has to give your rich prick of a fiancĂŠ a proper bachelor party!" he says with a smirk.
You hear a creak at the door and look up to see Pope standing there. You give him a small shake of your head and he keeps moving.
But for the first time since you heard Pope was sent to jail you feel a weight lifted from your chest. Pope is here, your protector is back.
You slap Craig, "Keep the watch. But you stay away from him from now on."
"Look he spent most of his money on the girls. And he had fun with 'em! You not putting out?" he asks with a fuckass smirk.
You lunge and start punching his chest. You feel a strong pair of arms around you. Pope drags you off his brother and carries you back to your room.
"You can't fight," he tells you as he places you on the bed.
"I don't need to know how to fight," you say as you grab your hairbrush.
"Everyone should know how to fight," Pope responds.
And that's how you end up by the pool with Pope tightening his boxing gloves on your wrists. He shows you how to punch. He stands behind you, kicking your feet wide, fixing your stance, he takes your hands in his as he physically moves you, showing you how to punch. You can't focus as his front presses against your back. You can feel too much of him.
"Just cos you've got a fancy life doesn't mean you shouldn't know how to defend yourself," he tells you.
You turn your head to look at him, you can see each freckle on his face.
"You've always defended me, Andrew," you whisper.
Neither of you move. You could kiss him. But you don't. You just watch each other. Until eventually Pope moves. He moves like he's been burned. He shakes his head and leaves.
You don't want to fall into old ways. You should go back. Forget about the Codys. But you stay. You even teach J how to boost cars. You do some bullshit pickpocketing with Craig. Deran takes you out surfing. You've always been shit at it. But you like swimming so you don't mind.
And you can't get Pope Cody out of your head. And he can't stop thinking about you. Last time he saw you, you were a kid. Now you're all grown up. Different. You're dangerous. The way you let him watch you shower. The way you moved your body against him.
You're going to visit your mother's grave. You probably should once before you go back to your real life. But you don't expect to run into one of your mother's dealers. Who she owes money to. How can this be happening again? You're about to pull out a wad of cash when this man is pulled off you.
Pope is there, on top of this man, punching and punching.
"Andrew," you call. Stopping him.
"He's not worth it. C'mon."
You bring him to your car and drive him back to his apartment. You walk him inside and sit him on his couch. That's how you end up patching up Andrew Cody's busted knuckles.
"I don't need you to beat on people for me," you say as you wrap his hand.
"That's what I do," he says with a sniff.
You look at him but he ducks his head. You cup his face in your hands and force him to look at you.
"You don't gotta do that. I know you've been doing it since you were a kid. And I appreciate you helping me. Being...being my little guard dog. But you don't need to do that," you say gently.
"What else can I do?" he whispers then.
You smile, brushing your thumb over his bottom lip.
"You could be kind for me," you breathe in return and replace your thumb with your lips.
You just kiss. Spend hours kissing Pope Cody until you fall asleep in each other's arms. And you like this. You could die happily kissing him. You like he tastes, how he lets out soft little hums as he licks into your mouth, you like how needy he gets as he pulls you impossibly closer.
You become used to this. Waking up beside him, cooking for him, curling into his side as you watch TV, just being with Pope.
But this isn't your life. You have a job in Santa Monica. You have a fiancĂŠ. Someone who hasn't reached out since he spent the night with strippers and hookers. You know you should go.
"You could come with me, baby," you tell Pope, running your fingers through his auburn curls as he lays on your lap.
But you know that he won't. He's too deep in with his family. While he can be gentle for you, he'll always be Smurf's executioner.
So you just sniff, nodding your head and gathering your things. It didn't matter. Kissing was kids play. You never went further than that. It meant nothing. That's what you tell yourself over and over.
You forget about the Codys. Forget about Oceanside. You try to go back to how your life, your real life was before your mother's death. You wake up next to a man you can't stand, expecting auburn curls and hazel eyes. You go to a job you hate, looking at numbers, making rich people richer.
But, you try. And you try until you walk into your fiancĂŠ's birthday party at his family home. There you see all the Cody boys...not Pope. Pope is notably absent. You look at Craig, your face falling. You drag Deran outside.
"What the fuck are you doing?" you hiss.
"Your boy invited us. You didn't tell us it was such a nice place," Deran responds with a shrug.
"Don't. Don't you pull your shit. Not here," you snap, poking him in the chest.
But, of course, a leopard never changes its spots. So now you're sitting there watching as your fiancĂŠ's family freaks out that all their valuables are gone.
"Who would have done this? It must have been someone at the party," your fiancĂŠ asks.
You just shake your head, "There were so many people-"
But he cuts you off.
"Your trailer trash brothers," he snaps. "I invited them. They're the only people we don't know..."
"I know them. They would never-"
"They stole my watch when we...after your mother's funeral. I just didn't know they were big-time gangsters. Just low-life scumbags," he hisses.
You look at him with huge eyes.
"You spent all your money on prostitutes," you snap. "You probably owed Craig money. Probably so high off your face on drugs you didn't even know what you spending. Who you were giving money to."
You let out a cry when he slaps you across the face.
"Shut your whore mouth up. They told me what your mother was. What you were before you came up here. Probably blew them all too. Even the weirdo who doesn't talk," he hisses.
He grabs your hair pulling you close to him.
"Did you get fucked by all of your brothers. Is that why you didn't mention 'em before?" he snaps. "Let them all fuckin' tag-team you. You dirty, fuckin' whore."
He wraps his hands around your throat and squeezes.
Your eyes are burning with tears. You got out of Oceanside to get away from men like this. But the problem is, men like this are everywhere. And Pope was right. You need to be able to fight. You can't fight.
You wish you had listened. But you were gonna die under some rich asshole. Until it all stops. Maybe you're dead. But then you hear the familiar sound of skin on skin. You manage to sit up and see Pope. Pope was the driver for his brother's cleaning the place out at the party last night. But he couldn't leave you. He missed you.
He came back. Bad idea. But he needed to see you. And now he has never been so thankful.
"Andrew!" you call, your voice tight after being strangled. "He's not worth it."
You let Pope pick you up, carry you to his car. You're adrenaline drops and you pass out in the car. You wake up to Pope tending to the bruises on your neck.
"I'm sorry you keep having to save me," you whisper.
"I woulda killed him...if you'd asked me to," he responds.
You shake your head, "I'm not Smurf, baby. I don't want you to do any of that for me. I don't want Pope. I just want Andrew. I just want you to love me. I don't need a protector or a bodyguard or whatever else..."
Pope looks at you.
"Loving means protecting," he grits out.
You smile, leaning forward to kiss him.
"Not like that, Andrew. Not in a bloodied knuckles kinda way," you promise. "In a...I don't know. You'll make sure the doors are locked. You'll make sure that my tyre pressure is right. Love is patient and gentle and kind."
"I'm not kind," Pope tells you, kissing over your face, your lips, your cheeks, your knees, your eyelids. "I would kill for you."
You look at him, returning his kisses, kissing over the constellations of freckles on his face.
"Be kind for me, baby. Reject the impulse to indulge in your violent nature for me," you whisper. "I left Oceanside. I had a life way from this place. Away from Smurf. We could do that too."
"You make feel quiet. You make me feel gentle. When you think about the way you make me feel...the way I love you, because I do love you, it doesn't make me feel violent," he tells you. "But I don't know how to not be this."
You look at him, kissing him.
"Let me show you, baby."
You kiss him, softly, then you deepen it. You explore the familiar inside of his mouth, but you've decided to explore more. You slip your hands up Andrew's shirt, feeling the hard muscles under your hands. You undress each other slowly. His rough hands on your soft skin; your small hands trace the freckles over his skin. You smile against his lips. He never breaks the kiss as you undress each other. You giggle like a teenager when you finally see each other completely naked.
You move to your knees, between his thick thighs. You look up at him, your eyes never leaving his hazel ones as you take him in your mouth. You hum as you take him, inch by inch. You trace the veins with your tongue as you feel him grow in your mouth.
Pope Cody is not gentle or patient or soft. But you've asked him to try. He wants to fuck your throat so badly. But he tracks his fingers through your soft hair, letting you take control.
"Baby," he begs, squeezing his eyes shut. "I don't want this to be over before we even start. Lemme taste you."
You barely get a chance to nod before he has his arms around your thighs and is all but throwing you onto the couch. Your giggle turns into a desperate moan as his tongue finds your clit. You don't know how you lasted weeks sleeping in bed with him without touching each other. You're like an exposed nerve, ready to cum at any second.
Andrew Cody may try to be patient, but when he hears your cries of pleasure and the way you shudder underneath him. He is pulling an orgasm out of you in no time. You explode on his tongue. And Pope wants you to do it again. He presses two thick fingers inside you and starts teasing you gently at first, until he sees you go cross-eyed. He quickens his pace, moving his fingers faster. He needs to see you cum again.
You cry out his name as you cum this time. This makes Pope almost cum himself. He pulls you onto his lap and starts kissing, desperately, hungrily.
"I wanna see it once more," he tells you.
You're eager, nodding your head, expecting to sink down onto his cock. Instead, he shifts you to grind against his thigh. Craig may have teased you about having a crush on Pope when you were kids, but he wasn't wrong. And the number of times you've fantasised about grinding against his thigh while you desperately humped at a pillow was embarassingly high. So you rock your hips against his thick thigh. Your pussy was already so sensitive none of it mattered.
Your tits are bouncing in Pope's face. An invitation if he ever saw one. And Pope Cody is nothing if not a tits man. So as you ride his thigh, he sucks and kisses at your nipples. Your cries of pleasure echo throughout the room. You grip his knees as you ride him until you cum. You convulse over him. Pope wraps his arms around you to calm your shuddering body.
"Andy, baby. I need to feel you inside me. Please?" you beg after the high of your third orgasm wears off.
You're clenching around nothing. And you're desperate and achey.
"Still so needy for me baby. Prettiest pussy I've ever seen," he praises you as he lays you down on the couch. "My pretty baby and her pretty pussy. You've been so good for me. Waiting for me. Huh?"
You nod your head as Pope hovers over you. He kisses over the bruises starting to form on your neck.
"My sweet, gentle girl. I'm so sorry," he tells you. "I'm never gonna let anything bad ever happen to you again. Here me?"
He presses into you. Your cunt is so ready for him after an hour of playing. You gasp and squirm under him. He rolls his hips, slowly, steadily, taking his time with you.
"Andrew. Need ya," you finally beg after what feels like hours of him teasing you.
He lets out a strangled moan as you rock your hips up to meet his. And he starts going harder, faster, gripping at the flesh of your ass. He hooks under your knee so he can spread you wider. He can go deeper now. And you're a goner as soon as he palms roughly at your tits.
"Fuck! Andrew! Andrew! Andrew!" you cry out as you squirt over his cock.
You're so overstimulated. Your cunt clamps down like a vice, used and spent. His hips stutter to a stop, pressed flush against you. You gasp again as you feel him empty into you. His forehead is pressed against yours as rope after rope of cum fills you. His hips roll in short aborted thrusts.
You don't know how many times over the next week you and Andrew fuck, make love, have sex. Every way you can explore each other's bodies, you do.
And when you look at him with those big puppy dog eyes, he finally decides that it's time to leave Oceanside. You sell your engagement ring and it's enough to set you up for life. But still, you take a new job with a new bank. Andrew fixes cars. He's happy.
He's happy until he comes to visit you at work. Sees the inside of a bank again and gets that familiar rush.
Pope Cody isn't a violent dog. But an animal can't resist its base urges.
a/n: thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed! any and all feedback appreciated. requests open
chapter eight of popeâs girl đ¤ | series masterlist | also on AO3
summary: Three weeks after Pope walked out, youâre still sleeping beside an empty pillow and listening for his car outside. You told him he still had you. Now he has to decide what to do with that.
notes: This chapter is full of angst and YEARNING â but theyâre working through it!! Cannot thank everyone enough for the love this little fic of mine is getting. Love you all sooo much!! đŤś
warnings: 18+, mdni, canon-divergent timeline, heavy angst, relationship conflict, emotional hurt, mentions of sex work/transactional sex, injury aftermath, blood mention, physical violence mention, toxic family dynamics, smoking, swearing, no use of y/n
this chapterâs song: To Be Alone With You - Sufjan Stevens
Please do not translate, repost, redistribute, or adapt this story on any platform without my explicit permission. Reblogs are welcome and encouraged!
chapter 8 | stay
Craigâs blood doesnât come out of the couch the first time, or the second.
By the third, the bowl of water on the floor beside you has gone pink, and the rag in your hand looks worse than the cushion itself. Itâs been three days since they showed up at your door with Craig bleeding through his shirt. Almost three weeks since Pope walked out of your apartment after what he said.
You sit on your knees in front of the couch, one bare foot tucked under your thigh, scrubbing until your knuckles start to ache. The bruise there has faded into something dull and ugly, almost gone if you donât look too hard. The scrape on your arm is healing too, except when you reach too far or twist wrong and it pulls enough to make you remember the brick against your back.
You twist the rag out over the bowl, and pink water drips from your fingers. âJesus Christ, Craig,â you mutter, quieter than you mean to.
The stain has soaked deeper than you thought. It isnât bright anymore, not like it was when Craig was stretched out on your couch trying to talk over the pain while Deran told him to shut up and hold still. Now itâs darker at the edges, stubborn in a way that makes you press the rag down again even though your hand already hurts.
The cushion gives under your palm, and you stop before that night can come back too clearly. You donât let yourself have all of it. Just Craigâs shoulder under the towel. Deranâs voice low and tight. Baz near the wall, mouth still sharp even after Pope let him go. Pope walking out because staying wouldâve made it worse.
You scrub harder, and pain sparks through your hand, sharp enough that you hiss and drop the rag into the bowl.
âFuck!â
You sit back on your heels and flex your fingers slowly. The knuckles are tender. Not broken. Deran had checked twice, his thumb careful around the bruising even while his mouth made it sound like you were the problem.
The apartment is quiet around you. Quieter than it used to be. Chrissyâs room is mostly boxes and open drawers, her closet door pushed wide because she took the hangers too. Thereâs a bare square on the dresser where her jewelry dish used to be, and the corner by the window looks wrong without the laundry basket she always swore she was going to empty. She still comes back. She still has a key. She still calls this place home sometimes and then catches herself, mouth twisting like she wants to take it back.
You never let her. You donât want her feeling bad for being happy. When she comes by, you pull the old blanket over the couch before she gets too far inside. Chrissy looks at it, then at you, and starts talking about Simonâs ugly plates and how he owns one pan and thinks thatâs normal. You let her. You love her for it. You hate that loving her now means watching her leave in pieces.
Your phone lights up on the coffee table, and you reach for it before you can talk yourself out of checking.
Pope.
you okay
It sits there on the screen, small and plain.
He doesnât text like he did before. Not one after another until your phone felt hot from being ignored. He doesnât send can we talk or need to see you or please, the way he did that first week, when that word from him had too much weight and you kept turning the screen facedown just to breathe around it.
Now itâs one text, then nothing. You pick up the phone with your good hand and stare at it until the screen dims.
The parking lot at your apartment comes back in pieces. Pope against the car. The cigarette burning low between his fingers. His face when you said what you said, like he wanted to believe you and didnât know if he was allowed.
You have me.
It wasnât forgiveness. It wasnât enough to fix what heâd said or bring him all the way back. It was still true.
Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You set the phone down, then pick it up again.
Outside, a car slows near the building, tires rolling over loose gravel in the lot. Your eyes go to the window before you can talk yourself out of it. The car keeps going.
You look back at the phone and type before you can decide not to.
iâm okay
You send it and immediately wish you could pull it back. Not because itâs wrong exactly, but because itâs too small to hold everything itâs trying to carry.
Pope answers after a minute.
okay
Thatâs it. No push. No question after. No opening for more. You stare at the word until the screen goes dark in your hand.
The rag is cold when you pick it up again. You press it to the stain, but you donât scrub this time. You just hold it there, palm flat, feeling the damp seep through to your skin.
By midnight, the bowl is in the sink, the rag is rinsed and hanging over the tub, and the blanket is pulled back over the cushion. The apartment smells like upholstery cleaner and old coffee. Chrissyâs door is open a few inches, the room beyond it dim and half-empty.
You stand in the hallway longer than you need to. There used to be noise from her room. Music through the wall, her yelling your name because she couldnât find something that was usually in her own hand, her laugh on the phone, bright and careless when she forgot anyone could hear her.
Now there are boxes. You close the door halfway, then leave it.
In your room, you get into bed without turning on the lamp. The sheets are cool. The pillow beside yours is too flat because you keep moving it, throwing it off the bed, picking it back up, telling yourself it doesnât matter where it is. Tonight itâs on the floor again, half under the bed where you kicked it sometime before you started on the couch.
You lie on your back and stare at the ceiling.
A car passes outside, and you stay where you are.
Another one slows near the building, and your eyes close before you can look. You tell yourself you need sleep, not Pope standing on the other side of your door with that look on his face like he has nowhere else to put what heâs carrying.
The car door doesnât open. No footsteps come up the stairs. The engine fades down the street.
You turn onto your side, facing the wall. You donât want him at your door just because he canât sleep. You donât want him there because heâs hurting badly enough to need somewhere to put it.
You want him there because he knows why youâre still awake too.
Thatâs the part that keeps you awake.
The apartment stays quiet. Somewhere outside, another car goes by, and this time you donât open your eyes.
You only listen until itâs gone.
Deran is already there when you get to The Pig.
The front door is unlocked, but the lights arenât all on yet. Chairs are still upside down on tables, the floor is damp in patches from the mop, and the place smells like cheap lemon cleaner over old liquor. Deran is behind the bar with the fridge open, loading bottles into the bottom row from a case at his feet.
He looks over when you come in. âYouâre early,â he says.
âSo are you.â
âI own the place.â
You set your bag under the bar and reach for the napkins stacked near the register. âMust be nice.â
âNot really.â
He goes back to the fridge, sliding bottles into place with more attention than beer bottles need. You start filling the metal holders because itâs easier than being home with the blanket pulled over the couch, and for a while, the only sounds are glass clinking, the cooler humming, and Deran moving around behind the bar like heâs trying to get the whole place ready by himself.
Then he says, âAbout the other night.â
Your hand slows around the next stack. You donât look at him. âWhat about it?â
Deran shuts the fridge with his hip. âShouldnât have brought them to your place.â
You press the napkins down until the edges sit flat. âCraig was bleeding.â
âI know.â
âYou didnât have a lot of choices.â
âI know that too.â
You look at him then. Deran has one hand on the fridge door, the other at his side. He looks annoyed, but not at you. More like the conversation is already pissing him off because he knows he has to have it.
âStill,â he says. âShouldnât have.â
You start to answer, and he shakes his head.
âDonât make it easier.â
Your mouth closes. He looks down at the case by his feet, then back at you.
âPope didnât want to go there,â he says. âHe tried to get us somewhere else. Body shop, one of the safe houses, anywhere that wasnât you.â
You donât say anything.
âBaz wouldnât shut up. Craig was bleeding through his shirt. J kept saying cops were circling the usual spots.â Deranâs jaw shifts. âI made the call.â
Your fingers tighten around the napkins.
âThatâs on me.â
You look down at the bar. Deran reaches for another bottle, then seems to realize the row is already full. He sets it back in the case.
âAbout Baz,â he says.
âHe knew what he was doing.â
âBaz always knows what heâs doing when heâs being a piece of shit.â
That should feel better than it does. It doesnât.
âHe wanted Pope to react,â you say.
âAnd Pope did.â Deran doesnât soften it. He doesnât argue. He just says it and reaches for the towel tucked near the sink, dragging it once over a clean patch of bar before tossing it aside.
You grab another stack of napkins from under the counter. âIs this where you tell me Pope didnât mean whatever he said?â
âNo.â The answer comes fast enough that you look at him. Deran meets your eyes. âI donât know what he said. He didnât tell me.â
Your hand stills.
âHe just said he fucked up.â
âHe did.â
âI know.â Deran rests both hands on the counter, shoulders slightly hunched, like itâs taking work not to move. âIâm not asking you to forgive him. Thatâs not why Iâm saying any of this.â
âThen why are you?â
âBecause heâs my brother.â
Your chest tightens, but you keep your face still.
Deran looks toward the front windows, then back at you. âAnd because you didnât deserve that shit in your apartment.â
The answer is too blunt to be sweet. That helps.
âWhatever he did or said,â Deran says. âThatâs on him.â
You wait.
âBut Smurf fucked us all up.â Deran says it flat, but his mouth has gone tight. âPope got it worse.â
You donât answer. Deran keeps his eyes on the windows.
âSomething ugly needed doing, she sent Pope. Something went wrong, she sent Pope. Somebody needed to be scaredâŚâ
He stops there, then looks down at the floor. âPope.â
He doesnât stay quiet long. Deran never does when a thing starts getting too close. âDoesnât make what he said okay.â
âNo.â
âDoesnât mean you owe him shit.â
You breathe out slowly. âIâm so fucking tired of everyone acting like him being messed up by Smurf, or Baz, or whoever else, means I have to be less hurt.â
Deran looks back at you. âIâm not saying that.â
He says it fast enough that you believe him.
Outside, a truck rolls past the front windows. Deran bends for the empty case, crushes one side in, then leaves it by his foot.
You look toward the back hallway, then at him again. âIs that why Adrianâs never around?â
His eyes narrow a little, more reflex than anger. âThatâs notââ
âDeran.â
He looks away first. For once, he doesnât have something ready. His hand comes up to rub over his mouth, and when he drops it, his face has already closed off.
âWhy do you think heâs not?â he says.
You donât answer.
Deran looks toward the front door. âIf someone matters, Smurf figures it out,â he says. âThen she starts pushing on it.â
Your fingers press into the napkins hard enough to bend the top one.
You think of Chrissy packing boxes in your hallway. Cath leaving through the alley with Lena asleep in the back seat. Pope driving past The Pig and never coming in. Adrian kept far enough away that Smurf has less to hold on to.
Deran looks back at the beer case. âIâm not here to talk you out of being pissed,â he says.
The words seem to bother him as soon as theyâre out.
He picks up the empty case. âHeâs my brother. So itâs fucked.â
That almost gets you to smile. Almost. âVery comforting.â
âWasnât trying to be.â
âNo, I can tell.â
His mouth moves a little before he looks down again. âHe came by this morning.â
Your body reacts before you can stop it. Deran catches it, but he doesnât call you on it.
âDidnât come in,â he says. âSat outside for a while. Left.â
You look down. âI donât want to know that.â
âSure.â
You glance up. Deran gives you a look. You hate that it works.
âHeâs not good,â he says.
You donât answer.
âAnd before you say it, I know. That doesnât fix anything.â Deran shifts the empty case against his hip. âBut Iâve seen Pope lose it. Iâve seen him angry, spun out, whatever. This isnât that.â
Your throat tightens. âHe doesnât get to come back just because heâs hurting.â
âI know.â
âHe has to actually be sorry.â
âHe is.â
You look at him.
Deran holds your stare for once. âIâm not saying that means anything unless he says it to you. But he is.â
You look away first. âIt canât just be because he misses me,â you say. âOr because he canât sleep. Or because he wants things how they were.â
âNo.â
âIt has to be because he knows what he did.â
Deran nods once. âSo make him say it.â
Deran adjusts his grip on the case and starts toward the back, then stops. âFor what itâs worth,â he says, not looking at you, âIâm sorry.â
You donât rush to tell him itâs okay. You donât tell him he had no choice. You let him hold it. Deran glances back once, nods like thatâs enough, and disappears through the swinging door.
You stay behind the bar with the napkins under your hand, the place still not open, and no one asking anything else from you yet.
By the time you get home, Chrissyâs room is darker than the rest of the apartment.
You leave your keys in the bowl by the door and stand there with your bag still on your shoulder, looking at the open doorway. More boxes are gone now. The carpet has a flat, square dent where her chair used to sit by the window, and thereâs a strip of wall near the closet that looks too clean because one of her old posters came down with the tape still curled at the corners.
You donât turn on the light.
The blanket is still pulled over the couch cushion. You check it without meaning to, eyes going there first, then away, because looking too long doesnât help and looking away doesnât change it. Your hand aches when you set your bag down, a dull pulse across the knuckles, and you flex your fingers before heading to the kitchen for water you donât really want.
You drink half the glass standing at the sink, then pour the rest out.
Thereâs a missed call from Pope when you check your phone. One. No voicemail. No text after it.
You set the phone facedown on the counter and leave it there while you wash your glass, dry it, put it away, then take it back out because you didnât get the spot near the rim. You do small things until there are no small things left to do. Every sound carries too far now. The cabinet shutting, the water cutting off, the glass settling back on the shelf.
By midnight, youâre on the couch with the TV on low and nothing from it getting through. The blanket is pulled up under your arm, the covered cushion beside you untouched. You must drift closer to sleep than you realize, because the knock folds into whatever half-dream youâre having before your eyes open.
Two quiet hits against the door. Then nothing.
You sit up slowly. Your body already knows before your head catches up.
You cross the apartment barefoot, the floor cool under your feet, and stop with your hand on the deadbolt. You stand there, listening. He doesnât knock again. Then you open it.
Pope stands in the hallway with his hands at his sides. The black eye has faded, yellowing at the edge, purple thinned under his cheekbone. The rest of him looks worse. His hair is pushed back rough, his mouth tight, his shoulders held in that locked way he gets when heâs forcing himself not to move too fast. He looks like heâs been driving for hours and still came up with nowhere else to go.
His attention stays on your face. âI tried not to come here,â Pope says.
Your hand stays on the door. âWhy did you?â
His jaw works before he answers. âCanât sleep.â
You donât move.
âCanât eat.â He looks down the hall, then back at you. âCanât sit still. I drive around. Go to the house. Leave. Go to jobs. Come back.â
The hallway light hums above him. âKeep thinking if I get tired enough, itâll stop.â
You already know what he means. You ask anyway. âWhat will?â
Popeâs mouth tightens before he answers.
âYou.â
Your fingers tighten on the edge of the door. Pope sees it and shakes his head once, quick.
âIâm not saying that so you feel bad.â
You stare at him.
âI did this,â he says. âNeed to say it right.â
You think about closing the door. Not because you donât want him there. That would be easier. You think about closing it because some part of you still wants to reach for him before the hurt is done talking. You think about the couch, the stain under the blanket, Bazâs voice in your apartment, Popeâs forearm under his throat. You think about the first night he left, almost three weeks ago now, and the way the lock sounded after you turned it.
Pope looks at the floor between you.
âPlease.â
Itâs not loud. Itâs not pretty. It barely makes it past his mouth.
You step back.
Pope doesnât come in right away. He looks at the space youâve made for him, then at you, like he still isnât sure itâs meant to be used. When he finally crosses the threshold, he does it carefully, keeping distance between his body and yours.
You close the door behind him. He stands in your living room with his arms at his sides, taking in the half-empty apartment, the low TV, the blanket over the couch. He keeps staring at the covered cushion until he has to look away.
âI told them not to come here,â Pope says.
âI know.â
âI told them.â
âI know, Pope.â
He drags one hand over his mouth, then drops it again.
âIâm sorry,â he says. âCraig. Baz. All of it. Shouldnât have been here.â
He looks down at his hands.
âIâm sorry I put my hands on Baz here.â
âYou left,â you say.
His eyes lift.
âBefore it got worse.â
His mouth tightens. âBecause it was gonna.â
You believe him. That hurts too.
Popeâs gaze drops to your hand where it rests against your side. The bruising is faint now, mostly yellow and gray, but he finds it anyway.
âAnd the alley.â
âYou stopped him.â
âI didnât stop.â
âYou did.â
âWhen Deran made me.â
The words sit there. Pope swallows once. âI heard you.â
Your hand curls before you can stop it.
âYou said my name,â Pope says. âI didnât stop.â
You look away.
âI saw you pull back.â
âThat wasnât because I was scared of you.â
âI know.â He says it too fast, then has to sit with how fast it came out.
His voice is lower when he speaks again.
âI know.â
You look back at him.
âI hated that I made you look at me like that.â
Your chest pulls tight. Pope doesnât turn it into more than he can say. He gives you pieces.
âAfter I said it. At the bar. In the alley.â His eyes move once toward the couch. âHere.â
He means your apartment. He means all of it.
âIt was still there,â you say.
âI know.â
He takes that without defending himself. Then his mouth tightens again, and you know before he says it.
âWhat I said.â
You go still.
âAbout the money.â
The apartment is quiet enough that you hear the TV change scenes behind you, some laugh track low in the living room. Pope stays where he is. He doesnât try to get around it.
âI knew it would hurt.â
You keep your face as steady as you can. âIt did.â
His jaw moves once. âI wanted it to.â
You hate that he says it so plainly. You hate more that heâs right. He knew exactly where to cut, and he did it anyway.
Pope stands there and lets you have that.
âBaz has been saying it since the beginning,â you say. âSmurf knew where to press. You knew what it felt like when they made it sound like that was all I was to you.â
Pope doesnât look away.
âAnd then you did it too.â
His jaw works once before he gets it under control.
âYou made me feel like they were right.â
âI know,â Pope says. The answer is rough.
You shake your head once. âIâm not trying to make you feel worse.â
âI know,â he says again, quieter.
âI just need you to understand that.â
âI do.â
You believe him. Youâre too tired for it to feel like relief.
Pope looks down, like he needs to get through the next part without moving toward you.
âYou were never that to me.â
Your throat tightens. âThen donât ever make me feel like I was.â
He nods once. âI wonât.â
You stay there until you canât anymore. Pope doesnât step closer. He doesnât ask for your hand. He doesnât turn the hurt on himself in a way that makes you clean it up.
âNot asking you to forgive me tonight,â Pope says.
You look at him.
âI just needed you to know I get it. What I did.â
Thereâs no speech after. No promise big enough to fix it. Just Pope standing in your living room, worn down and quiet, knowing the apology doesnât earn him anything except the chance to have said it.
âI know,â you say.
He nods, small and almost lost, then looks toward the door.
âI should go.â
The words come out like heâs already decided for you, like leaving is the only decent thing he has left to offer. Your body moves before your pride can stop it.
âPope.â
He stops with his hand half-lifted, not touching the knob yet.
You cross the space between you and catch his wrist. Not hard. Not even enough to hold him if he really wanted to leave. But he stays.
His skin is warm under your fingers. His wrist shifts once under your hand, then goes still. He turns back slowly, looks at your hand around his wrist, then at you.
Pope doesnât move until you do. You let go before it becomes too much and step closer anyway.
His forehead comes down to yours, careful and slow. No kiss. Just the weight of him there, familiar enough to hurt and new enough that both of you stay too still inside it.
âIâm sorry,â Pope says.
His breath touches your mouth. You close your eyes.
âI know.â
He breathes in like heâs trying to keep it together, and for one breath you think he might. Then his forehead slips from yours, and his head drops to your shoulder.
âBabyâŚâ he says.
Barely there.
Your whole body answers it, even hurt, even tired, even after everything. Your eyes burn hard and fast, and the first tear gets out before you can stop it.
His arms come around you with a care that makes another one slip down your cheek. Not tight at first. Not taking. Then his breath catches against your neck, once, then again, and his shoulders start to shake while he tries to hold the rest down.
You wrap your arms around him. Pope folds into you then. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a broken breath against your skin, his face pressed into your shoulder, holding himself so tight that the shaking barely has anywhere to go.
You slide one hand up to the back of his neck. âIâm here,â you whisper.
His grip tightens.
âYou still hurt me.â
He nods against your shoulder. You wipe your cheek against his shirt because your hands are busy holding him. A fresh tear slips out anyway, and you hold him through it.
âBut I missed you.â
Pope tries to answer, but all that comes out is a rough breath against your neck. His hand presses between your shoulder blades, fingers spread there like he needs to know youâre real and doesnât trust himself to ask for more.
âI need you,â Pope says, voice wrecked.
The words should scare you more than they do. Maybe they would have before.
Now they only make you close your eyes and hold him tighter, because he isnât using them to pull you back. Heâs already there, breaking quietly in your arms, not asking you to fix what he did.
You stand there until your arm starts to ache and his breathing finally settles against your shoulder.
Standing there starts to hurt after a while.
Your arm goes first, the scrape pulling where your hand rests near the back of Popeâs neck. Then your knees. Then the rest of you, worn down from the late hour and too many nights of not sleeping right.
Pope lifts his head from your shoulder. His eyes are red. He looks away before you can look at him too long, one hand dragging over his face like he can wipe it off.
âYou should sit,â Pope says.
You almost tell him youâre fine. You donât.
The two of you move to the couch without talking about it. You sit on the end farthest from the blanket, and Pope sits beside you with enough space between you that it doesnât feel like heâs assuming anything. The covered cushion stays on the other side. You both keep your eyes off it.
Popeâs eyes move toward the hallway. âChrissy coming home?â
âSheâs moving in with Simon.â
He nods. âGood for her.â
You turn your head toward him. He looks down at his hands.
âYou donât sound like you mean that.â
âI do.â
It comes out too fast, so he tries again. âI do. I just donât like you here alone.â
Thereâs no order in it. He doesnât tell you what to do. He doesnât tell you to come with him. He only says it and leaves it there.
You look toward Chrissyâs room, half-empty through the open door. âIâm not alone right now.â
Pope goes quiet. The TV keeps playing low across the room, some late-night commercial neither of you is watching.
âNo,â Pope says. âYouâre not.â
You look down at your hands. âIâm sorry too.â
Pope turns his head right away. âNo.â
âPope.â
âDonât do that.â
âIâm not taking back what you said,â you say. âIâm not making it okay.â
His jaw tightens, but he nods.
You rub your thumb over the side of your hand, near the bruising. âIâm not sorry Cath got out.â
Pope doesnât move.
âIâm not sorry Lena got out. Iâm not sorry I didnât give anybody a chance to stop them.â
âI know,â Pope says.
âAnd Iâm not sorry I didnât tell you about Patrick right away because I thought you were stupid. Or because I thought you couldnât understand.â
His eyes stay on you.
âI was scared,â you say.
Pope doesnât interrupt.
You keep your voice low. âPatrick was a cop asking about Cath. I knew what that meant around your family. I was scared youâd go after him. Or Smurf would. Or Baz. Someone would decide he was a problem, and youâd be the one who ended up paying for it.â
Pope looks down.
âI didnât want you back in prison,â you say. âI didnât want you hurt. I didnât want you dead because I told you something and it set everything off.â
He stays quiet, and this time, it doesnât feel like heâs waiting for his turn to be hurt. Heâs just listening.
âBut I handled it alone,â you say. âI kept thinking if I held enough back, I could keep you safe.â
Popeâs hands are open between his knees.
âMaybe that wasnât fair to you,â you say. âThatâs what Iâm sorry for.â
He doesnât take it like it fixes anything. He sits with it, shoulders forward, eyes down.
Then Pope says, âI shouldâve been someone you could tell.â
You look at him.
âYou are.â
He lifts his head too fast, like he wants to believe that before youâve finished saying it.
So you give him the rest.
âYou werenât then,â you say. âNot with that.â
Pope nods once. âOkay.â
No argument. No trying to make you say it differently.
You breathe out and lean back into the couch.
Popeâs eyes drop to your hand. âStill hurt?â
âA little.â
âDeran said it wasnât broken.â
âDeran also said I punch wrong.â
âYou do.â
Your head turns toward him.
Popeâs mouth changes a little, not quite a smile, but close. âHeâs not wrong.â
âYouâre taking his side?â
âNo,â Pope says. âJust donât like that you had to.â
That almost gets you. Enough that you have to look down before your face gives you away.
âHe deserved it,â you say.
Popeâs mouth flattens, and the warmth leaves his face just enough for something harder to show through. He drops his eyes to the floor before it can turn into anything else.
âYeah,â Pope says. âHe did.â
He doesnât add anything after that. He doesnât reach for you. He only stays beside you on the couch, close enough that you can feel the heat of him there, not close enough to ask for more.
You donât mean to fall asleep on the couch.
Your shoulder has started to ache from the way youâre sitting, and your eyes keep closing, opening again when your head dips too far toward your chest. Pope sits beside you without touching you, forearms on his thighs, hands loose between his knees. He looks tired enough to sleep sitting up, but tired has never meant much with him.
âYou should sleep,â Pope says.
You blink at the TV, still on low across the room. âIâm fine.â
Pope turns his head toward you. He doesnât argue. That should make staying awake easier. It doesnât.
You remember closing your eyes with your cheek tipped toward the back cushion, the blanket bunched near your elbow, Pope still warm beside you and careful with the space between. You hear the click of the TV being shut off, then youâre moving, lifted out of the dip in the couch with one arm under your knees and the other behind your back. Your eyes open halfway as your hand finds his shirt.
âPope?â you murmur.
âI got you,â Pope says. His voice is low near your ear.
You donât answer. The words are familiar enough to hurt.
He carries you down the hallway carefully, his hold loose around your scraped arm, his steps slow when your knee bumps his side. In your room, he lowers you onto the bed and keeps one hand behind your back until youâre settled. The sheets are cool under your legs. His hand leaves you slowly.
Pope straightens beside the bed and looks down.
The pillow is still on the floor, half under the bed where you kicked it earlier, the case wrinkled from too many nights of being moved around and put nowhere useful. Pope finds it, but he doesnât ask. He bends, picks it up, brushes one hand over the pillowcase, and sets it beside yours. Not where it used to be. Close enough.
He pulls the blanket up over you, higher than you usually bother with, tucking it around your shoulder because he knows it slips when you sleep. He does it quietly, like knowing that much is something he doesnât want to use against you.
Then he steps back.
âPope,â you say.
He stops. âYeah?â
âCan you stay?â
Pope doesnât answer right away.
âI can sleep on the couch.â
âYou can sleep next to me.â
Pope doesnât move.
âI wasnâtââ
âI know,â you say.
He wasnât asking for the bed. He wasnât asking for your body. He wasnât trying to turn sorry into permission.
Youâre tired and hurt and too worn down to make it come out cleaner.
âStay.â
Pope looks at the floor, then at the door, then back at you. After a few breaths, he bends to untie his shoes and sets them side by side near the wall. He comes around to the other side of the bed and lowers himself onto the mattress.
The bed shifts with his weight.
You lie on your back at first, eyes open to the ceiling, aware of him beside you. Pope lies flat too, one arm along his side, the other bent over his stomach.
After a while, you turn your head, not fully, just enough to catch him already looking at you. Pope looks away first, and it hurts in a small, strange way because heâs never been good at looking away from what he wants. Now he does it before you have to ask.
You face the ceiling again.
Your hand rests on the blanket near your hip. His is a few inches away on top of the sheet, open and still. You could move your fingers and touch him. He could do the same.
Your hand stays where it is. So does his.
Then you feel him looking again. When you turn your head, Pope doesnât look away this time. His face is tired, the bruise at his eye faded in the dark, his mouth softer than it was when he stood in your doorway. He doesnât reach. He doesnât say anything.
You look away first because if you keep looking, youâll be the one to cross the space, and you donât know what that means yet.
You turn onto your side, facing the wall.
Behind you, the mattress moves as Pope turns too. Away from you.
Thereâs space between your backs, but it doesnât feel like him leaving. He isnât turning away because he wants distance. Heâs giving you the only kind he can while still staying.
You can hear him breathing behind you, rough at first, uneven from the crying he tried to hide and the exhaustion he brought in with him. After a while, his breathing slows. Yours starts to follow.
The couch is still covered in the living room. Chrissyâs room is still half-empty down the hall. Nothing is fixed because heâs in your bed.
But Pope stays.
Thatâs all he takes.
Thatâs all you give.
His breathing turns heavier before yours does. You keep your eyes open until you canât anymore.
For the first time in weeks, both of you sleep before the sun comes up.
chapter eight of popeâs girl đ¤ | series masterlist | also on AO3
summary: Three weeks after Pope walked out, youâre still sleeping beside an empty pillow and listening for his car outside. You told him he still had you. Now he has to decide what to do with that.
notes: This chapter is full of angst and YEARNING â but theyâre working through it!! Cannot thank everyone enough for the love this little fic of mine is getting. Love you all sooo much!! đŤś
warnings: 18+, mdni, canon-divergent timeline, heavy angst, relationship conflict, emotional hurt, mentions of sex work/transactional sex, injury aftermath, blood mention, physical violence mention, toxic family dynamics, smoking, swearing, no use of y/n
this chapterâs song: To Be Alone With You - Sufjan Stevens
Please do not translate, repost, redistribute, or adapt this story on any platform without my explicit permission. Reblogs are welcome and encouraged!
chapter 8 | stay
Craigâs blood doesnât come out of the couch the first time, or the second.
By the third, the bowl of water on the floor beside you has gone pink, and the rag in your hand looks worse than the cushion itself. Itâs been three days since they showed up at your door with Craig bleeding through his shirt. Almost three weeks since Pope walked out of your apartment after what he said.
You sit on your knees in front of the couch, one bare foot tucked under your thigh, scrubbing until your knuckles start to ache. The bruise there has faded into something dull and ugly, almost gone if you donât look too hard. The scrape on your arm is healing too, except when you reach too far or twist wrong and it pulls enough to make you remember the brick against your back.
You twist the rag out over the bowl, and pink water drips from your fingers. âJesus Christ, Craig,â you mutter, quieter than you mean to.
The stain has soaked deeper than you thought. It isnât bright anymore, not like it was when Craig was stretched out on your couch trying to talk over the pain while Deran told him to shut up and hold still. Now itâs darker at the edges, stubborn in a way that makes you press the rag down again even though your hand already hurts.
The cushion gives under your palm, and you stop before that night can come back too clearly. You donât let yourself have all of it. Just Craigâs shoulder under the towel. Deranâs voice low and tight. Baz near the wall, mouth still sharp even after Pope let him go. Pope walking out because staying wouldâve made it worse.
You scrub harder, and pain sparks through your hand, sharp enough that you hiss and drop the rag into the bowl.
âFuck!â
You sit back on your heels and flex your fingers slowly. The knuckles are tender. Not broken. Deran had checked twice, his thumb careful around the bruising even while his mouth made it sound like you were the problem.
The apartment is quiet around you. Quieter than it used to be. Chrissyâs room is mostly boxes and open drawers, her closet door pushed wide because she took the hangers too. Thereâs a bare square on the dresser where her jewelry dish used to be, and the corner by the window looks wrong without the laundry basket she always swore she was going to empty. She still comes back. She still has a key. She still calls this place home sometimes and then catches herself, mouth twisting like she wants to take it back.
You never let her. You donât want her feeling bad for being happy. When she comes by, you pull the old blanket over the couch before she gets too far inside. Chrissy looks at it, then at you, and starts talking about Simonâs ugly plates and how he owns one pan and thinks thatâs normal. You let her. You love her for it. You hate that loving her now means watching her leave in pieces.
Your phone lights up on the coffee table, and you reach for it before you can talk yourself out of checking.
Pope.
you okay
It sits there on the screen, small and plain.
He doesnât text like he did before. Not one after another until your phone felt hot from being ignored. He doesnât send can we talk or need to see you or please, the way he did that first week, when that word from him had too much weight and you kept turning the screen facedown just to breathe around it.
Now itâs one text, then nothing. You pick up the phone with your good hand and stare at it until the screen dims.
The parking lot at your apartment comes back in pieces. Pope against the car. The cigarette burning low between his fingers. His face when you said what you said, like he wanted to believe you and didnât know if he was allowed.
You have me.
It wasnât forgiveness. It wasnât enough to fix what heâd said or bring him all the way back. It was still true.
Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You set the phone down, then pick it up again.
Outside, a car slows near the building, tires rolling over loose gravel in the lot. Your eyes go to the window before you can talk yourself out of it. The car keeps going.
You look back at the phone and type before you can decide not to.
iâm okay
You send it and immediately wish you could pull it back. Not because itâs wrong exactly, but because itâs too small to hold everything itâs trying to carry.
Pope answers after a minute.
okay
Thatâs it. No push. No question after. No opening for more. You stare at the word until the screen goes dark in your hand.
The rag is cold when you pick it up again. You press it to the stain, but you donât scrub this time. You just hold it there, palm flat, feeling the damp seep through to your skin.
By midnight, the bowl is in the sink, the rag is rinsed and hanging over the tub, and the blanket is pulled back over the cushion. The apartment smells like upholstery cleaner and old coffee. Chrissyâs door is open a few inches, the room beyond it dim and half-empty.
You stand in the hallway longer than you need to. There used to be noise from her room. Music through the wall, her yelling your name because she couldnât find something that was usually in her own hand, her laugh on the phone, bright and careless when she forgot anyone could hear her.
Now there are boxes. You close the door halfway, then leave it.
In your room, you get into bed without turning on the lamp. The sheets are cool. The pillow beside yours is too flat because you keep moving it, throwing it off the bed, picking it back up, telling yourself it doesnât matter where it is. Tonight itâs on the floor again, half under the bed where you kicked it sometime before you started on the couch.
You lie on your back and stare at the ceiling.
A car passes outside, and you stay where you are.
Another one slows near the building, and your eyes close before you can look. You tell yourself you need sleep, not Pope standing on the other side of your door with that look on his face like he has nowhere else to put what heâs carrying.
The car door doesnât open. No footsteps come up the stairs. The engine fades down the street.
You turn onto your side, facing the wall. You donât want him at your door just because he canât sleep. You donât want him there because heâs hurting badly enough to need somewhere to put it.
You want him there because he knows why youâre still awake too.
Thatâs the part that keeps you awake.
The apartment stays quiet. Somewhere outside, another car goes by, and this time you donât open your eyes.
You only listen until itâs gone.
Deran is already there when you get to The Pig.
The front door is unlocked, but the lights arenât all on yet. Chairs are still upside down on tables, the floor is damp in patches from the mop, and the place smells like cheap lemon cleaner over old liquor. Deran is behind the bar with the fridge open, loading bottles into the bottom row from a case at his feet.
He looks over when you come in. âYouâre early,â he says.
âSo are you.â
âI own the place.â
You set your bag under the bar and reach for the napkins stacked near the register. âMust be nice.â
âNot really.â
He goes back to the fridge, sliding bottles into place with more attention than beer bottles need. You start filling the metal holders because itâs easier than being home with the blanket pulled over the couch, and for a while, the only sounds are glass clinking, the cooler humming, and Deran moving around behind the bar like heâs trying to get the whole place ready by himself.
Then he says, âAbout the other night.â
Your hand slows around the next stack. You donât look at him. âWhat about it?â
Deran shuts the fridge with his hip. âShouldnât have brought them to your place.â
You press the napkins down until the edges sit flat. âCraig was bleeding.â
âI know.â
âYou didnât have a lot of choices.â
âI know that too.â
You look at him then. Deran has one hand on the fridge door, the other at his side. He looks annoyed, but not at you. More like the conversation is already pissing him off because he knows he has to have it.
âStill,â he says. âShouldnât have.â
You start to answer, and he shakes his head.
âDonât make it easier.â
Your mouth closes. He looks down at the case by his feet, then back at you.
âPope didnât want to go there,â he says. âHe tried to get us somewhere else. Body shop, one of the safe houses, anywhere that wasnât you.â
You donât say anything.
âBaz wouldnât shut up. Craig was bleeding through his shirt. J kept saying cops were circling the usual spots.â Deranâs jaw shifts. âI made the call.â
Your fingers tighten around the napkins.
âThatâs on me.â
You look down at the bar. Deran reaches for another bottle, then seems to realize the row is already full. He sets it back in the case.
âAbout Baz,â he says.
âHe knew what he was doing.â
âBaz always knows what heâs doing when heâs being a piece of shit.â
That should feel better than it does. It doesnât.
âHe wanted Pope to react,â you say.
âAnd Pope did.â Deran doesnât soften it. He doesnât argue. He just says it and reaches for the towel tucked near the sink, dragging it once over a clean patch of bar before tossing it aside.
You grab another stack of napkins from under the counter. âIs this where you tell me Pope didnât mean whatever he said?â
âNo.â The answer comes fast enough that you look at him. Deran meets your eyes. âI donât know what he said. He didnât tell me.â
Your hand stills.
âHe just said he fucked up.â
âHe did.â
âI know.â Deran rests both hands on the counter, shoulders slightly hunched, like itâs taking work not to move. âIâm not asking you to forgive him. Thatâs not why Iâm saying any of this.â
âThen why are you?â
âBecause heâs my brother.â
Your chest tightens, but you keep your face still.
Deran looks toward the front windows, then back at you. âAnd because you didnât deserve that shit in your apartment.â
The answer is too blunt to be sweet. That helps.
âWhatever he did or said,â Deran says. âThatâs on him.â
You wait.
âBut Smurf fucked us all up.â Deran says it flat, but his mouth has gone tight. âPope got it worse.â
You donât answer. Deran keeps his eyes on the windows.
âSomething ugly needed doing, she sent Pope. Something went wrong, she sent Pope. Somebody needed to be scaredâŚâ
He stops there, then looks down at the floor. âPope.â
He doesnât stay quiet long. Deran never does when a thing starts getting too close. âDoesnât make what he said okay.â
âNo.â
âDoesnât mean you owe him shit.â
You breathe out slowly. âIâm so fucking tired of everyone acting like him being messed up by Smurf, or Baz, or whoever else, means I have to be less hurt.â
Deran looks back at you. âIâm not saying that.â
He says it fast enough that you believe him.
Outside, a truck rolls past the front windows. Deran bends for the empty case, crushes one side in, then leaves it by his foot.
You look toward the back hallway, then at him again. âIs that why Adrianâs never around?â
His eyes narrow a little, more reflex than anger. âThatâs notââ
âDeran.â
He looks away first. For once, he doesnât have something ready. His hand comes up to rub over his mouth, and when he drops it, his face has already closed off.
âWhy do you think heâs not?â he says.
You donât answer.
Deran looks toward the front door. âIf someone matters, Smurf figures it out,â he says. âThen she starts pushing on it.â
Your fingers press into the napkins hard enough to bend the top one.
You think of Chrissy packing boxes in your hallway. Cath leaving through the alley with Lena asleep in the back seat. Pope driving past The Pig and never coming in. Adrian kept far enough away that Smurf has less to hold on to.
Deran looks back at the beer case. âIâm not here to talk you out of being pissed,â he says.
The words seem to bother him as soon as theyâre out.
He picks up the empty case. âHeâs my brother. So itâs fucked.â
That almost gets you to smile. Almost. âVery comforting.â
âWasnât trying to be.â
âNo, I can tell.â
His mouth moves a little before he looks down again. âHe came by this morning.â
Your body reacts before you can stop it. Deran catches it, but he doesnât call you on it.
âDidnât come in,â he says. âSat outside for a while. Left.â
You look down. âI donât want to know that.â
âSure.â
You glance up. Deran gives you a look. You hate that it works.
âHeâs not good,â he says.
You donât answer.
âAnd before you say it, I know. That doesnât fix anything.â Deran shifts the empty case against his hip. âBut Iâve seen Pope lose it. Iâve seen him angry, spun out, whatever. This isnât that.â
Your throat tightens. âHe doesnât get to come back just because heâs hurting.â
âI know.â
âHe has to actually be sorry.â
âHe is.â
You look at him.
Deran holds your stare for once. âIâm not saying that means anything unless he says it to you. But he is.â
You look away first. âIt canât just be because he misses me,â you say. âOr because he canât sleep. Or because he wants things how they were.â
âNo.â
âIt has to be because he knows what he did.â
Deran nods once. âSo make him say it.â
Deran adjusts his grip on the case and starts toward the back, then stops. âFor what itâs worth,â he says, not looking at you, âIâm sorry.â
You donât rush to tell him itâs okay. You donât tell him he had no choice. You let him hold it. Deran glances back once, nods like thatâs enough, and disappears through the swinging door.
You stay behind the bar with the napkins under your hand, the place still not open, and no one asking anything else from you yet.
By the time you get home, Chrissyâs room is darker than the rest of the apartment.
You leave your keys in the bowl by the door and stand there with your bag still on your shoulder, looking at the open doorway. More boxes are gone now. The carpet has a flat, square dent where her chair used to sit by the window, and thereâs a strip of wall near the closet that looks too clean because one of her old posters came down with the tape still curled at the corners.
You donât turn on the light.
The blanket is still pulled over the couch cushion. You check it without meaning to, eyes going there first, then away, because looking too long doesnât help and looking away doesnât change it. Your hand aches when you set your bag down, a dull pulse across the knuckles, and you flex your fingers before heading to the kitchen for water you donât really want.
You drink half the glass standing at the sink, then pour the rest out.
Thereâs a missed call from Pope when you check your phone. One. No voicemail. No text after it.
You set the phone facedown on the counter and leave it there while you wash your glass, dry it, put it away, then take it back out because you didnât get the spot near the rim. You do small things until there are no small things left to do. Every sound carries too far now. The cabinet shutting, the water cutting off, the glass settling back on the shelf.
By midnight, youâre on the couch with the TV on low and nothing from it getting through. The blanket is pulled up under your arm, the covered cushion beside you untouched. You must drift closer to sleep than you realize, because the knock folds into whatever half-dream youâre having before your eyes open.
Two quiet hits against the door. Then nothing.
You sit up slowly. Your body already knows before your head catches up.
You cross the apartment barefoot, the floor cool under your feet, and stop with your hand on the deadbolt. You stand there, listening. He doesnât knock again. Then you open it.
Pope stands in the hallway with his hands at his sides. The black eye has faded, yellowing at the edge, purple thinned under his cheekbone. The rest of him looks worse. His hair is pushed back rough, his mouth tight, his shoulders held in that locked way he gets when heâs forcing himself not to move too fast. He looks like heâs been driving for hours and still came up with nowhere else to go.
His attention stays on your face. âI tried not to come here,â Pope says.
Your hand stays on the door. âWhy did you?â
His jaw works before he answers. âCanât sleep.â
You donât move.
âCanât eat.â He looks down the hall, then back at you. âCanât sit still. I drive around. Go to the house. Leave. Go to jobs. Come back.â
The hallway light hums above him. âKeep thinking if I get tired enough, itâll stop.â
You already know what he means. You ask anyway. âWhat will?â
Popeâs mouth tightens before he answers.
âYou.â
Your fingers tighten on the edge of the door. Pope sees it and shakes his head once, quick.
âIâm not saying that so you feel bad.â
You stare at him.
âI did this,â he says. âNeed to say it right.â
You think about closing the door. Not because you donât want him there. That would be easier. You think about closing it because some part of you still wants to reach for him before the hurt is done talking. You think about the couch, the stain under the blanket, Bazâs voice in your apartment, Popeâs forearm under his throat. You think about the first night he left, almost three weeks ago now, and the way the lock sounded after you turned it.
Pope looks at the floor between you.
âPlease.â
Itâs not loud. Itâs not pretty. It barely makes it past his mouth.
You step back.
Pope doesnât come in right away. He looks at the space youâve made for him, then at you, like he still isnât sure itâs meant to be used. When he finally crosses the threshold, he does it carefully, keeping distance between his body and yours.
You close the door behind him. He stands in your living room with his arms at his sides, taking in the half-empty apartment, the low TV, the blanket over the couch. He keeps staring at the covered cushion until he has to look away.
âI told them not to come here,â Pope says.
âI know.â
âI told them.â
âI know, Pope.â
He drags one hand over his mouth, then drops it again.
âIâm sorry,â he says. âCraig. Baz. All of it. Shouldnât have been here.â
He looks down at his hands.
âIâm sorry I put my hands on Baz here.â
âYou left,â you say.
His eyes lift.
âBefore it got worse.â
His mouth tightens. âBecause it was gonna.â
You believe him. That hurts too.
Popeâs gaze drops to your hand where it rests against your side. The bruising is faint now, mostly yellow and gray, but he finds it anyway.
âAnd the alley.â
âYou stopped him.â
âI didnât stop.â
âYou did.â
âWhen Deran made me.â
The words sit there. Pope swallows once. âI heard you.â
Your hand curls before you can stop it.
âYou said my name,â Pope says. âI didnât stop.â
You look away.
âI saw you pull back.â
âThat wasnât because I was scared of you.â
âI know.â He says it too fast, then has to sit with how fast it came out.
His voice is lower when he speaks again.
âI know.â
You look back at him.
âI hated that I made you look at me like that.â
Your chest pulls tight. Pope doesnât turn it into more than he can say. He gives you pieces.
âAfter I said it. At the bar. In the alley.â His eyes move once toward the couch. âHere.â
He means your apartment. He means all of it.
âIt was still there,â you say.
âI know.â
He takes that without defending himself. Then his mouth tightens again, and you know before he says it.
âWhat I said.â
You go still.
âAbout the money.â
The apartment is quiet enough that you hear the TV change scenes behind you, some laugh track low in the living room. Pope stays where he is. He doesnât try to get around it.
âI knew it would hurt.â
You keep your face as steady as you can. âIt did.â
His jaw moves once. âI wanted it to.â
You hate that he says it so plainly. You hate more that heâs right. He knew exactly where to cut, and he did it anyway.
Pope stands there and lets you have that.
âBaz has been saying it since the beginning,â you say. âSmurf knew where to press. You knew what it felt like when they made it sound like that was all I was to you.â
Pope doesnât look away.
âAnd then you did it too.â
His jaw works once before he gets it under control.
âYou made me feel like they were right.â
âI know,â Pope says. The answer is rough.
You shake your head once. âIâm not trying to make you feel worse.â
âI know,â he says again, quieter.
âI just need you to understand that.â
âI do.â
You believe him. Youâre too tired for it to feel like relief.
Pope looks down, like he needs to get through the next part without moving toward you.
âYou were never that to me.â
Your throat tightens. âThen donât ever make me feel like I was.â
He nods once. âI wonât.â
You stay there until you canât anymore. Pope doesnât step closer. He doesnât ask for your hand. He doesnât turn the hurt on himself in a way that makes you clean it up.
âNot asking you to forgive me tonight,â Pope says.
You look at him.
âI just needed you to know I get it. What I did.â
Thereâs no speech after. No promise big enough to fix it. Just Pope standing in your living room, worn down and quiet, knowing the apology doesnât earn him anything except the chance to have said it.
âI know,â you say.
He nods, small and almost lost, then looks toward the door.
âI should go.â
The words come out like heâs already decided for you, like leaving is the only decent thing he has left to offer. Your body moves before your pride can stop it.
âPope.â
He stops with his hand half-lifted, not touching the knob yet.
You cross the space between you and catch his wrist. Not hard. Not even enough to hold him if he really wanted to leave. But he stays.
His skin is warm under your fingers. His wrist shifts once under your hand, then goes still. He turns back slowly, looks at your hand around his wrist, then at you.
Pope doesnât move until you do. You let go before it becomes too much and step closer anyway.
His forehead comes down to yours, careful and slow. No kiss. Just the weight of him there, familiar enough to hurt and new enough that both of you stay too still inside it.
âIâm sorry,â Pope says.
His breath touches your mouth. You close your eyes.
âI know.â
He breathes in like heâs trying to keep it together, and for one breath you think he might. Then his forehead slips from yours, and his head drops to your shoulder.
âBabyâŚâ he says.
Barely there.
Your whole body answers it, even hurt, even tired, even after everything. Your eyes burn hard and fast, and the first tear gets out before you can stop it.
His arms come around you with a care that makes another one slip down your cheek. Not tight at first. Not taking. Then his breath catches against your neck, once, then again, and his shoulders start to shake while he tries to hold the rest down.
You wrap your arms around him. Pope folds into you then. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a broken breath against your skin, his face pressed into your shoulder, holding himself so tight that the shaking barely has anywhere to go.
You slide one hand up to the back of his neck. âIâm here,â you whisper.
His grip tightens.
âYou still hurt me.â
He nods against your shoulder. You wipe your cheek against his shirt because your hands are busy holding him. A fresh tear slips out anyway, and you hold him through it.
âBut I missed you.â
Pope tries to answer, but all that comes out is a rough breath against your neck. His hand presses between your shoulder blades, fingers spread there like he needs to know youâre real and doesnât trust himself to ask for more.
âI need you,â Pope says, voice wrecked.
The words should scare you more than they do. Maybe they would have before.
Now they only make you close your eyes and hold him tighter, because he isnât using them to pull you back. Heâs already there, breaking quietly in your arms, not asking you to fix what he did.
You stand there until your arm starts to ache and his breathing finally settles against your shoulder.
Standing there starts to hurt after a while.
Your arm goes first, the scrape pulling where your hand rests near the back of Popeâs neck. Then your knees. Then the rest of you, worn down from the late hour and too many nights of not sleeping right.
Pope lifts his head from your shoulder. His eyes are red. He looks away before you can look at him too long, one hand dragging over his face like he can wipe it off.
âYou should sit,â Pope says.
You almost tell him youâre fine. You donât.
The two of you move to the couch without talking about it. You sit on the end farthest from the blanket, and Pope sits beside you with enough space between you that it doesnât feel like heâs assuming anything. The covered cushion stays on the other side. You both keep your eyes off it.
Popeâs eyes move toward the hallway. âChrissy coming home?â
âSheâs moving in with Simon.â
He nods. âGood for her.â
You turn your head toward him. He looks down at his hands.
âYou donât sound like you mean that.â
âI do.â
It comes out too fast, so he tries again. âI do. I just donât like you here alone.â
Thereâs no order in it. He doesnât tell you what to do. He doesnât tell you to come with him. He only says it and leaves it there.
You look toward Chrissyâs room, half-empty through the open door. âIâm not alone right now.â
Pope goes quiet. The TV keeps playing low across the room, some late-night commercial neither of you is watching.
âNo,â Pope says. âYouâre not.â
You look down at your hands. âIâm sorry too.â
Pope turns his head right away. âNo.â
âPope.â
âDonât do that.â
âIâm not taking back what you said,â you say. âIâm not making it okay.â
His jaw tightens, but he nods.
You rub your thumb over the side of your hand, near the bruising. âIâm not sorry Cath got out.â
Pope doesnât move.
âIâm not sorry Lena got out. Iâm not sorry I didnât give anybody a chance to stop them.â
âI know,â Pope says.
âAnd Iâm not sorry I didnât tell you about Patrick right away because I thought you were stupid. Or because I thought you couldnât understand.â
His eyes stay on you.
âI was scared,â you say.
Pope doesnât interrupt.
You keep your voice low. âPatrick was a cop asking about Cath. I knew what that meant around your family. I was scared youâd go after him. Or Smurf would. Or Baz. Someone would decide he was a problem, and youâd be the one who ended up paying for it.â
Pope looks down.
âI didnât want you back in prison,â you say. âI didnât want you hurt. I didnât want you dead because I told you something and it set everything off.â
He stays quiet, and this time, it doesnât feel like heâs waiting for his turn to be hurt. Heâs just listening.
âBut I handled it alone,â you say. âI kept thinking if I held enough back, I could keep you safe.â
Popeâs hands are open between his knees.
âMaybe that wasnât fair to you,â you say. âThatâs what Iâm sorry for.â
He doesnât take it like it fixes anything. He sits with it, shoulders forward, eyes down.
Then Pope says, âI shouldâve been someone you could tell.â
You look at him.
âYou are.â
He lifts his head too fast, like he wants to believe that before youâve finished saying it.
So you give him the rest.
âYou werenât then,â you say. âNot with that.â
Pope nods once. âOkay.â
No argument. No trying to make you say it differently.
You breathe out and lean back into the couch.
Popeâs eyes drop to your hand. âStill hurt?â
âA little.â
âDeran said it wasnât broken.â
âDeran also said I punch wrong.â
âYou do.â
Your head turns toward him.
Popeâs mouth changes a little, not quite a smile, but close. âHeâs not wrong.â
âYouâre taking his side?â
âNo,â Pope says. âJust donât like that you had to.â
That almost gets you. Enough that you have to look down before your face gives you away.
âHe deserved it,â you say.
Popeâs mouth flattens, and the warmth leaves his face just enough for something harder to show through. He drops his eyes to the floor before it can turn into anything else.
âYeah,â Pope says. âHe did.â
He doesnât add anything after that. He doesnât reach for you. He only stays beside you on the couch, close enough that you can feel the heat of him there, not close enough to ask for more.
You donât mean to fall asleep on the couch.
Your shoulder has started to ache from the way youâre sitting, and your eyes keep closing, opening again when your head dips too far toward your chest. Pope sits beside you without touching you, forearms on his thighs, hands loose between his knees. He looks tired enough to sleep sitting up, but tired has never meant much with him.
âYou should sleep,â Pope says.
You blink at the TV, still on low across the room. âIâm fine.â
Pope turns his head toward you. He doesnât argue. That should make staying awake easier. It doesnât.
You remember closing your eyes with your cheek tipped toward the back cushion, the blanket bunched near your elbow, Pope still warm beside you and careful with the space between. You hear the click of the TV being shut off, then youâre moving, lifted out of the dip in the couch with one arm under your knees and the other behind your back. Your eyes open halfway as your hand finds his shirt.
âPope?â you murmur.
âI got you,â Pope says. His voice is low near your ear.
You donât answer. The words are familiar enough to hurt.
He carries you down the hallway carefully, his hold loose around your scraped arm, his steps slow when your knee bumps his side. In your room, he lowers you onto the bed and keeps one hand behind your back until youâre settled. The sheets are cool under your legs. His hand leaves you slowly.
Pope straightens beside the bed and looks down.
The pillow is still on the floor, half under the bed where you kicked it earlier, the case wrinkled from too many nights of being moved around and put nowhere useful. Pope finds it, but he doesnât ask. He bends, picks it up, brushes one hand over the pillowcase, and sets it beside yours. Not where it used to be. Close enough.
He pulls the blanket up over you, higher than you usually bother with, tucking it around your shoulder because he knows it slips when you sleep. He does it quietly, like knowing that much is something he doesnât want to use against you.
Then he steps back.
âPope,â you say.
He stops. âYeah?â
âCan you stay?â
Pope doesnât answer right away.
âI can sleep on the couch.â
âYou can sleep next to me.â
Pope doesnât move.
âI wasnâtââ
âI know,â you say.
He wasnât asking for the bed. He wasnât asking for your body. He wasnât trying to turn sorry into permission.
Youâre tired and hurt and too worn down to make it come out cleaner.
âStay.â
Pope looks at the floor, then at the door, then back at you. After a few breaths, he bends to untie his shoes and sets them side by side near the wall. He comes around to the other side of the bed and lowers himself onto the mattress.
The bed shifts with his weight.
You lie on your back at first, eyes open to the ceiling, aware of him beside you. Pope lies flat too, one arm along his side, the other bent over his stomach.
After a while, you turn your head, not fully, just enough to catch him already looking at you. Pope looks away first, and it hurts in a small, strange way because heâs never been good at looking away from what he wants. Now he does it before you have to ask.
You face the ceiling again.
Your hand rests on the blanket near your hip. His is a few inches away on top of the sheet, open and still. You could move your fingers and touch him. He could do the same.
Your hand stays where it is. So does his.
Then you feel him looking again. When you turn your head, Pope doesnât look away this time. His face is tired, the bruise at his eye faded in the dark, his mouth softer than it was when he stood in your doorway. He doesnât reach. He doesnât say anything.
You look away first because if you keep looking, youâll be the one to cross the space, and you donât know what that means yet.
You turn onto your side, facing the wall.
Behind you, the mattress moves as Pope turns too. Away from you.
Thereâs space between your backs, but it doesnât feel like him leaving. He isnât turning away because he wants distance. Heâs giving you the only kind he can while still staying.
You can hear him breathing behind you, rough at first, uneven from the crying he tried to hide and the exhaustion he brought in with him. After a while, his breathing slows. Yours starts to follow.
The couch is still covered in the living room. Chrissyâs room is still half-empty down the hall. Nothing is fixed because heâs in your bed.
But Pope stays.
Thatâs all he takes.
Thatâs all you give.
His breathing turns heavier before yours does. You keep your eyes open until you canât anymore.
For the first time in weeks, both of you sleep before the sun comes up.
summary: his wife brings the kids to visit him at work and to show off the new addition to the abbot family, and maybe jack is already itching for anotherâŚ
wc: 1.3k
warnings: jack and reader are parents, robby flirts with reader (hardly), reader works at ptmc but no job specified, uhh thats it i think? its just fluff hehehe
summary: his wife brings the kids to visit him at work and show off the new addition to the abbot family, and maybe jacks already itching for anotherâŚ
a/n: dad!jack you will always be famous. if anyone wants to see more of this little family lmk :3 (still trying to decide on names for the babiesâŚ)
Jack hears you before he sees you, his ears perking up at the familiar sound of your laugh floating through the chaos of the ED. Any other time it would make his own smile spread across his face, but now it makes his brows pinch together as he makes his way towards the sound.
Youâre supposed to be at home, resting. Sure itâs been a couple months since the baby was born, but at the very least you should be as far away from work as possible.
He rounds a corner and finally catches sight of you, along with all three of his children. The baby carrier at your feet is empty, and his eyes search the small crowd of coworkers gathered around his family and find his youngest in Lenaâs arms, whoâs smiling down at the newborn.
As he walks up to you from behind, his arm is already reaching toward you before heâs even close enough to touch. His gentle and familiar hand on your shoulder has you turning to him with a dazzling smile, and he momentarily forgets his worries when a face that beautiful is grinning at him so lovingly.
âHiya, handsome,â you greet, pouting your lips for a kiss. Heâs quick to give you what you want, always is, and presses his lips to yours. Something you normally rarely allow him to do when youâre both in the Pitt.
âBaby, whatâre you doing here?â he cuts straight to the chase. He looks and sees his son and daughter talking animatedly to a kneeling Mateo behind the counter.
âWe just wanted to come say âhiâ to everyone and take you to breakfast,â
âItâs so early, you should be in bed,â he frets. Itâs past 7:00, the scheduled end of his shift. If he had to guess heâd say itâs closer to 8:00, a few last minute traumas delaying shift change. You roll your eyesânot without fondnessâand let out a huff.
âJack, Iâm fine,â you insist, a hand on his chest that he immediately covers with his own, âI wanted to get out of the house. I was going stir crazy,â you whisper the last part.
He opens his mouth to argue, to say you still donât need to come into your place of work when youâre supposed to be relaxing, but Lenaâs voice cuts him off.
âHow dare you try and hide this cuteness from us, Abbot,â sheâs glaring at him over his child in her arms.
Itâs Jackâs turn to roll his eyes, âKid was just in the hospital 2 months ago, figured he didnât need to be back anytime soon,â he grumbled.
But he canât deny the soaring in his chest as he takes in his growing family. You are so amazing, and heâs grateful everyday and tells you plenty, but seeing you here and all his kids happy and healthy with this new addition, itâs hard not to feel an overwhelming appreciation.
âWoah, itâs raining Abbots!â Robbyâs voice joins the crowd. Your daughter turns and runs toward him and he squats down to scoop her into his arms before standing again.
âUncle Robby!â She cheers. He grins at her, walking up to where you and Jack lean against the countertop with her on his hip.
âHi sweetie,â he coos, âhave you been good for your mommy?â he winks at you and you huff a dry laugh.
âDonât start with me, Robby.â you chastise.
âYeah, donât.â Jack glares at him and Robby just raises his free hand in surrender.
Lena passes the baby back to you, all the surrounding nurses cooing at him as he fusses at the movement.
âLooks like Abbotâs got another mini me,â Lena smiles.
Jackâs chest swells with pride, glancing at his eldest son whoâs a spitting image of a young him; auburn curls and a goofy smile. He thinks itâs too soon to tell who the baby looks more likeâyou or himâbut he has to admit his genes are strong, a twinge of red even showing in your daughter's hair when it catches the sun.
âHe is pretty handsome, isnât he?â He says with a smug smile.
âThatâs the last thing we all need; more Jackâs.â Robby teases.
ââm making the world a better place,â he says gallantly.
He leans down and picks up the carrier, placing it on the counter for you. You give him a grateful smile, transferring your youngest smoothly and buckling him in.
âMommy, Iâm hungry,â your oldest son says softly, looking up at you.
âOkay, my baby,â You coo and brush his hair back, hand coming around to cup his cheek gently, thumb caressing freckled skin, âWeâll go as soon as daddyâs finished,â
âOh, daddyâs finished,â Robby says, passing your daughter into Jackâs arms, who goes happily.
Jack takes her without a second thought, but his brow pinches, âRobby we still gotta finish handoffs.â
The taller man just shrugs, âI think we got it covered. Go have breakfast with your family.â He claps Jack on the back once.
You gasp in exaggerated excitement, âSay âthank you Uncle Robby,ââ you tickle your daughterâs tummy who giggles in her fatherâs arms.
âThank you, Uncle Robby!â your son, daughter, and Jack chant in unison. Robby offers your son his fist, who bumps it with his own tiny one, and then grabs a tablet from the counter.
Heâs already walking towards the first patient room as he calls over his shoulder to you, âNow get out of here, youâre supposed to be anywhere but here.â
Jack gives you a look that says told you so and you narrow your eyes at him.
Your son lifts his arms up to you and Jack doesnât even give you a second to think about bending down to pick him upâdoctorâ orders (him)âbefore heâs scooping him into his free arm. Your daughter giggles at the jostling, Jack settling a kid on either hip. Theyâre both still small enough to carry at once, but he knows itâs only a matter of time until his son is too big to be carried. Heâll savor it as long as he canâand start lifting heavier weights to prolong that time, which heâs sure youâll enjoy. Two for one special, he thinks.
âGot him, baby?â Jack asks. You nod as you pick up the carrier, waving goodbye to all your coworkers who have already scattered around the busy ED back to work.
âWhoâs ready for breakfast?â He looks between his two oldest as you all make your way towards the car, the kids shouting in agreement, âMe too, Iâm starving. What took you guys so long to come rescue me?â he teases.
The sound of his kids' laughter ringing in his ears fills him with an indescribable warmth. As you all walk through the parking lot, the early morning sun shining bright on your glowing face thatâs flashing him your stunning smile, Jack canât help but fall deeper in love with you.
He thinks for a moment itâs a secret mercy his kids take after him and not you because thereâs no way heâd ever deny them a thing if it was your eyes pouting at him. He shakes the thought awayâcause who is he kidding? he canât deny them now; it wouldnât make a difference.
Still, he canât help wondering if maybe the next one will be your mini me, and he canât wait to find out.
You look back at him and squint your eyes at him in suspicion, âWhy are you looking at me like that?â
âHave I ever told you how beautiful you are?â He asks suavely, lower lip drawn between his teeth and you straight up laugh at him. Itâs a ridiculous questionâhe knows thatâbecause he only tells you nearly every waking moment.
âWipe that look off your face, Abbot. Maybe wait till this kid can lift his head on his own before you start thinking that,â you scold, but he sees right through you.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
the first time Jack shows you pictures of him when he was younger after months of you begging to see it. heâd always shake his head, claiming youâd get one look at how handsome he used to be and realize you no longer want the old, washed up version of him. as if you would ever think that with his sexy salt and pepper and the crinkles around his eyes that youâve mastered bringing out of him.
you recognize the gift youâre getting once he finally pulls a box out that heâd kept hidden deep in his closet, taking out old pictures of him from med school, his soldier days. you coo as you lean over his shoulder, and then you go quiet, nearly yanking one from his hand to bring it to your face and get a closer look.
he glances at you, apprehensive as he tries to understand why youâve suddenly gone so quiet. but then:
âred hair???â you exclaim, your eyes widening comically as your face absolutely lights up with glee.
he lets out a chuckle thatâs laced with relief. âyeah, baby, you didnât know?â
âNO I didnât know! youâve never let me see!!â you say, almost offended if it werenât for your excitement. you rifle through more pictures, gawking at the deep red curls on the freckled boy in all of them.
you donât shut up about it for a long time after, much to jackâs dismay. youâd pull up pictures that are now saved onto your phone, staring at them with a giddy smile. youâd go up to him with a smirk, and heâd roll his eyes.
âhey baby, does the carpet match the drapes?â youâd drawl, wiggling your eyebrows at him while he laughs and pushes playfully at your shoulder.
âyouâve seen the drapes. they do match - itâs all grey.â
he knew he never should have shown you those damn pictures.
Description: You and your new boyfriend haven't had sex yet. Though, getting drunk for the first time â and seeing your gorgeous boyfriend take care of you â awakens that dormant part. Or, you being a drunk mess trying to get him to fuck you, and him fighting his self-control.
Tags/warnings: Established rlsp, Drinking, r is drunk, lots of flirting, highly suggesting themes, lots of mentions of sex, huge age-gap (reader in 20's, abbott is 50), size difference, horniness lol, slight allusions to dom!jack, use of pet names: sweetheart, baby, honey (would u guys like "kid" lol?) (sorry, i have issues. i think.)
Note: This is my first fic, and i wrote it in one go. While I tried to make the reader very neutral in terms of characteristics â the fic is highly self-indulgent (i, too, am horny for abbott), and you may see some mentions of reading having hair, reader being in heels.
âI kind of want to get shitfaced.â
Jack did not turn to look at you. He just huffed into his cup of black coffee, held closely to his lips. The kind of black coffee that made you wrinkle your nose. You proudly liked yours with a bit of milk in it. Okay, a lot of milk. To the point, Jack called it a milkshake.
His eyes remained fixated at the screen of his phone, straining even with his reading glasses, to read the daily news on a bulletin app you downloaded on his phone.Â
âWhat about your policy against having fun, and letting yourself go for more than two minutes in a row?â Jack asks in his low voice, scratchy from the coffee. His eyes finally find yours, as he takes a slow sip from his cup. His eyebrows raise at you questioningly, holding your gaze.
Damn him and his gaze. Even after 6 weeks of dating â and pining for a lot longer than that â he sure could still make you feel like a puddle.
You're only able to speak once he turns to his phone again. âUh, excuse you, I'm a very fun person, thank you very much. Yesterday, I put a fake âyour computer is downâ screen on Shen's laptop,â you tell proudly.Â
âDear god. He did not go into a cardiac arrest from yourâŚprank?â Jack's voice caught on the word âprankâ as if it deeply amused him.
You narrowed your eyes at your boyfriend (still hard to say that), shifting close enough to him on his couch that your knee knocked against his thigh. Your entire body faced him, while his faced the front â a tiny whine left your lips.
Jack turned his attention back to you as you spoke again. âYou know it's the loss of control I hate. Don't you think I also feel like getting all loose-lipped and dancing on top of tables and flirting with strangers?â
His eyes softened a fraction when he saw the small frown on your lips. He sets his phone face-down on the arm of the couch, before shifting so his upper half faced you too. âOkay, what brings this on? You know I just like teasing, I don't think there's anything wrong with being an alcohol virgin.â
You rolled your eyes at his choice of words. âI want to know what it's like. It makes everyone soâŚâ your hands do a weird dance in front of your chest, trying to find a proper word. Your attending swiftly moves his cup a bit to the left, so your hands wouldn't knock it all over yourself.Â
âJoyful,â you finished.
âOkay, but let's not dance on table tops and flirt with strangers,â he takes off his reading glasses and perches them next to his phone. When his eyes find you again, they're equal parts amused, and that softness that only seems to show up when you're in the room.
âI would never, I'd feel bad for giving you stress at your age.â
He lightly smacks your hip that's not smushed against the couch, âBrat.â
You grin widely, âYou'll be there, right?â
âWith a camera and a mic. My beautiful, sensible, nurse, looking like an absolute fool,â he tugged at a loose strand of your hair, his eyes shining with endearment.
Your little baby blue sling looks absolutely ridiculous hung over his shoulder. âWhat did I tell you before leaving?â His voice strains with the effort of all the workout he got in today. He's struggling with unlocking the door, because your purse keeps slipping down his arms.
You were a disaster. While your favourite doctor made sure you only stuck to fruity drinks that gave you a pleasant buzz and not regrets â you still managed to outdo yourself in terms of being a mess.
You challenged a man twice your size in an arm wrestle. You advised 3 different women to break up with their boyfriends, âMine's handsome and kind. You guys stay safe, though.â And, finally, broke the heel of your left boot making you even more unbalanced than you already were.Â
âThat Dr. Robby is a little shit with no self-preservation inst-â
âThe other one, honey.â
You went silent for a moment, searching your hazy brain as the door opened in front of you. Jack gently guided you in, before locking the door with a sharp click. His rough hands sneak up your arms, tugging the jacket at your shoulders, and shrug it off you to safely hang it on his coat rack.
âThat I shouldn't carry my bag if I couldn't keep it safe?â you say, looking down at him, as he sets his knee on the floor. His hands that cut and heal skin with such precision, are deftly working the zipper of your boots. He gently helps your feet out of the pair, patting your calf, before rising to his full height again with a groan.
Without your size boosters, your head was once again leveled with his chest. Jack nodded, leaning his head down so you didn't have to crane your neck as much.
âBut I had my ID and pepper spray in there,â you justified, your lower lip jutting out in a pout.
Jack's hand pats the right-side pocket of his hands, âID,â his voice rumbling as if coming straight from his chest. âAnd you don't need pepper spray. You have me.â
But you're not registering a word he says, not when he looks like this. His salt and pepper curls are all ruffled from your bar visit. His simple black tee is pulled taut across his biceps, making them look just as delicious as they do in his SWAT uniform.
His fingers snap in front of you, âEyes up here, sweetheart.â You look in his honeyed eyes again. God, why haven't you guys had sex already? You seriously can't remember why.
âWhy haven't we fucked?â You blurt out. Oh, the alcohol doesnât make you Joyful. It makes you blunt.
Your boyfriend freezes for a second, before letting out a deep, throaty laugh. His hands settle on your shoulders. With a slight bend of his knees, he manages to stare completely and directly into your eyes. âWow, thought we went to the bar, not to a seminar for clear communication.â
You capture both his hands and slide them down, so they're firmly on your hips. After humming in satisfaction, you take a step closer to him, your chest brushing his. âAnswer me.â
As if suddenly realizing you both are still standing in the entryway, Jack starts walking you backwards, swiftly maneuvering you so you don't hit the kitchen counter. âI'm your attending, honey, I don't answer to you,â
You furrow your brows, staring up at him with irritation. You press yourself even closer to him, your palms settling on his hard stomach. âLike hell you don't. I want to know why me and my gorgeous boyfriend haven't made good use of every room in this too-big-for-you house.â
Jack sighs deeply, his fingers unconsciously tightening around your hips. He takes a seat on one of the low kitchen counter stools, so he doesn't have to keep looking down at you. His arms completely wrap around your waist, pulling you in until you're standing between the hard muscle of his thighs.
âBecause we work at a hospital, we're either busy or tired. AndâŚit's hard to find a footing with sex. You tense up whenever my hand slips under your shirt, you've talked about how insecure you get. And meâŚwell, I'm not what I used to be.â
Your eyes soften, âBut do you want me?â Your lips graze his jaw, your hands palming the hard plane of his chest.
Jack shifts in his seat and takes a deep breath, âWhat do you think, baby?â his right hand moves an inch lower with exaggerated slowness, settling on the top curve of your ass, his thumb stroking the curve.
You let out an entirely pathetic whimper at his breathy voice, his lips brushing your temple. You move back your face, so you can watch him again. His eyes look darker than they actually are.
âI see this as a good opportunity that we should seize, doctor.â His throat catches at the âdoctorâ. Oh, you are not a fair player.
âWell, I don't like my medical staff being inhibited. Perhaps, sometimes when you're horny and sober, we can continue the procedure.â His breaths are coming in shallow, his hard thighs squeezing around you to completely lock you in. His hands have not stopped moving, the one on your waist has moved north to tangle in your hair at the nape of your neck.
A petulant whine leaves your lips as you bury your mouth in the crook of his neck. âBut-â
âNo buts. I have no intention of being between your legs in a state you won't even remember anything in.â The rasp in his voice so close to your ear directly travels to the your belly, already coiling tight with tension.
The imagery makes you groan: His mouth working between your legs, his jaw shining under the dim lights, stopping for a moment to say, âLouder, baby. Your doctor can't hear you.â
Your lips slip from his neck, replaced by your forehead. His lips brush against your hair, the gentleness so different from what his body is suggesting.
âKids and their hormones,â he teasingly says. That makes you pull yourself back. Because that's rich coming from a man whose pants are getting visibly tighter.
âIs that so, grandpa?â Your eyes are entirely fixated on his lips. Your own bottom lip has caught between your teeth.
His thumb comes up to free your lip so you don't hurt it, âCareful, brat.â His hand stays on your face, and you lean heavily into his palm, blinking at him. The strap of your top has conveniently fallen off from its place, and Jack is staring like a man who's just discovered shoulders, tracking the soft curve of it, following the slope of your neck, where your pulse thrums rapidly.
Leave it to him to have a gaze that weights at least a 300 pounds.
Your palms drop from his chest to his waist, brushing your fingers against the waistband of his pants. A soft âuh-uhâ leaves his mouth as he slowly shakes his head, though he makes no move with his hands to push you away.
âYou're palming at me like you're a little girl, and I'm your favorite barbie doll.â
âYou are my favorite barbie doll, Dr. Abbott,â it leaves your mouth in a soft, needy, whine.
His shoulder shake slightly from laughter, the comforting rumble filling the room, subsequently reaching every tensed part of your body, and taking its place there too, perfectly fitting every crook and corner.
âI am a 50-year old man with a military background, who spends his nights managing an entire floor of medical staff. My day hobbies include being a buddy to SWAT and getting shot at.â
You look at him, as if to say âso?â and hearing the adoration â despite the choice of words â in your voice completely decentres him. âGlad to be your favourite barbie doll, honey.â
He finally freezes when your wandering palm brushes against the hard ridge in his pants, practically begging to be freed. You let out a little gasp as you feel his size, even with a barrier of rough fabric.
A low groan leaves him, his hand sharply capturing your bold wrist against his own chest, heaving up and down. For someone just talking about being 50, the man's heart is sure beating with a fast thump-thump-thump, like a teenage boy catching his crush in a 2-feet vicinity. Your name leaves his mouth, dirty and like a prayer at the same time.
âLet me help you, doctor. Pleaseâ you say sweetly, voice coated in silk and need and whatever poison this man mixed in your drinks.
A pause.
He gets off the stool in a sudden motion, his hands grip your forearms, and starts walking you backwards in the general direction of the bathroom.
âYou are a pain in my ass. And, frankly, a horny mess.â
âSpeaking of horny and my ass-â
He doesn't let you complete the sentence before turning you around, his broad chest hovering over your form from the back. âNope. You have lost the privilege of looking at me before you've taken a cold shower.â
You tilt your head back to look at him, excitement glinting in your eyes, âtogether?â
âNo, you pervert.â Your boyfriend opens the door to the bathroom and lets you both in. Before you can even complain, his rough palms are gripping the back of your thighs, swiftly lifting you up on the counter. You let out a little squeal, squeezing your thighs at the display of his strength.
Show-off.
So fucking hot, though. It's like he was made by Lana Del Ray's mind.
Jack doesnât stop, though. He finds his way behind the glass that separates the shower from the rest of the bathroom. His practiced hands mess with the settings until he's satisfied, and comes back.
He stands in front of you again, crossing his arms over his chest. His muscles strain at the motion, trying to escape their way from the tight shirt. You pout at his slut-ishness. A walking, talking, thirst trap. If he was an actor, he would surely have his fare share of editors.
âHow am I supposed to not get wet when you manhandle me?â
âJesus,â he mumbles, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes to lull some of his composure back into him. He silently thanks his military discipline, or you would currently be spread on the soft sheets of his bed, waking up his neighbours.
He takes a deep breath, eyes scanning you again. His fingers come up to pinch your chin in a soft embrace, âShower. Clean. Mind and body both. And then, we will sleep. Got it?â
Heat pools low in your belly at his authoritative voice. God, how did you land this man?
âSir, yes, sir.â You watch his gaze get heavy at the word. He leaves his hold on your chin, pats your hip, and exits the bathroom.
Guess you know what you'll be calling him, when he finally lets you do what your body is begging you to do.
You find him on his bed, wearing only a pair of low hung worn-out sweatpants. His back is slumped against the pillows, fingers locked behind his head as he stares at the ceiling.
He finally looks at you, crawling on his king-sized bed, trying to make your way over to him. It seems the shower un-possessed you. You look soft, sleepy, tired, and utterly his.
He holds out his arm and you immediately curl up into him, your icy-cold nose finding the hollow of his neck. âHold me,â you murmur.
âOne second, honey.â Before he can properly embrace you, he pulls up the thick duvet and arranges it to cover both of you. His left arm is trapped under your body, fingers pressing against the small of your back to pull you closer. His other hand brushes the hair back from your face, watching your heavy eyelids.
âThere you are,â he softly rumbles before pressing the softest, most lingering kiss on your temple. A low sigh of satisfaction leaves you. You're still inhibited, but the tiredness has caught up.
âYou didn't like the freaky me?â You ask, your jaw cracking with a yawn right after.Â
âI like every-you, unfortunately. It's a weakness in the ED.â His fingers are still moving in your hair, scratching your scalp in a way that turns your brain to mush. You push your face even deeper in his neck. Hell, you would live inside his ribcage if he ever allowed it.
You let out a soft giggle, hiking your thigh over his hip so no part of you is separate from him. âCan we have a proper conversation about sex tomorrow?â
Your boyfriend murmurs a âyes, baby,â against your forehead.Â
âOkay, goodnight. Gonna have some good wet dreams.â
âShut up, and go to sleep, sweetheart.â
If anybody even reads this, and ends up liking it - pls feel free to glaze me in comments, asks, or dms. likes and reblogs appreciated as well <3 also, do yall think im funny?
the stretch of sand is practically glowing under the midday sun, but you are leaning back on your towel with a massive scowl on your face. the ocean waves are crashing lazily against the shore, a perfect summer breeze cutting through the heat, but none of it matters because your favorite tanning oil is currently sitting unused in your beach bag.
"turn over," jack's voice breaks through your silent tantrum.
you glance up from behind your oversized designer sunglasses, courtesy of jack, to find him standing over you, looking entirely too put together for a day at the beach. he's wearing sleek linen shorts and a light shirt, and in his hand, he is holding a giant bottle of broad spectrum spf one hundred.
"i just want to tan, jackieee," you whine, crossing your arms and refusing to move. "you don't ever let me tan! just let me use the oil for an hour, pleaseeeee."
jack doesnt even blink. as a doctor, his professional stance on sun protection is entirely non negotiable, and he has zero tolerance for you risking your health for an aesthetic. he kneels down on the edge of your towel, his broad frame blocking out the harsh rays above you.
"you know the rules sweetheart," he says, his tone soothing yet authoritative, and utterly unyielding. "you are not frying your skin under my watch. now, lie flat on your stomach before i have to take you back inside the house."
you huff, letting out a dramatic sigh as you roll over onto your stomach, burying your face in your crossed arms. you expect him to just slap the lotion on quickly, but jack is meticulous about everything he does, especially when it is for your own good.
you feel the cool pool of lotion drop onto the middle of your back, making you shiver against the heat of the sand. then, his large, warm hands spread the cream across your skin. his palms are firm and smooth, sweeping down your spine and smoothing over your shoulder blades with long, deliberate strokes. despite your annoyance, the heavy pressure of his hands feels incredible, melting the tension right out of your shoulders.
a soft, low moan comes from your lips, the sound quiet but entirely deliberate in the air.
you just couldn't help it. part of it was the sheer relief of his hands erasing the tight knots in your muscles, but another part of you wanted to see just how much you could rile him up.
jackâs hands relax instantly. for a split second, the smooth rhythm of his palms stopped completely, flattening against your waist as his fingers flexed into your skin. he would be wrong if he said he didn't expect this from you; you just love to tease him. he would also be wrong if he said he didn't enjoy every bit of it.
you heard the sudden, sharp intake of his breath right above your ear. the casual, easygoing demeanor he usually carried vanished, replaced by a thick, heavy silence. when he started moving his hands again, his strokes were noticeably heavier, his pulse racing where his fingers pressed against your hip bones.
he continues working slowly, ensuring every single millimeter of your skin is completely covered. his thumbs trace the sides of your spine before he moves outward, his hands sliding down to your hips. you think he is finished, but jack leans in closer, his chest nearly brushing against your back as he reaches around the edge of your sides.
his fingers slide underneath the hem of your bikini top, smooth palms wrapping around the soft curves on the outer sides of your tits to blend the sunscreen flawlessly. your breath hitches at the sudden warmth of his touch so close to your chest, your heart rate spiking as his thumbs lightly graze the sensitive skin right near the swell of your tits.
"jack," you breathe out, your voice losing all its previous attitude.
"hold still sweetheart," he murmurs right by your ear, his voice a low, commanding rumble. "the sun bounces off the sand and hits these exact areas. you need protection here just as much as anywhere else."
he finishes rubbing the cream into your sides, his hands lingering for just a second too long against your ribs before his heavy palm gives your thigh a firm, instructive pat. "flip around for me darling. let me do the front before you start burning."
you roll over onto your back, looking up at him as he pours another generous amount of the white cream into his hands. you stare at him defiantly, trying to look annoyed, but your breath hitches as his hands come down onto your collarbones. he smooths the lotion over your chest with slow, heavy circles, his thumbs sweeping just under the top edge of your bikini, ensuring every exposed inch of your upper chest is thoroughly guarded. he works his way down to your stomach, his warm palms sliding over your ribs and down to your abdomen, his fingers dipping slightly below the waistband of your bottoms to blend it perfectly. his touch is clinical yet impossibly heavy, making you squirm under his unwavering gaze as he coats your thighs and the tops of your legs with smooth, firm strokes.
he finally pulls away, capping the bottle. the lotion leaves your skin completely covered and glistening, your cheeks flushed from far more than just the summer heat. a cold bottle of water suddenly enters your field of vision as he stands up, offering it to you. the afternoon tan might be completely ruined, but remembering how effortlessly he manhandled you, you don't really mind not being able to tan again.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
âcan i open my eyes now?â you asked excitedly, kicking your feet as pope held up the diamond anklet he stole from his recent job with the guys. pope lived for your reactions every time he brought you back something and surprised you with it, his own small smile playing on his lips as he answered with a hushed âyeahâ. removing your hands from your face, you gasped as soon as you saw the twinkling gems reflect off of the light from your bedside lamp, your eyes widening ever so slightly. âoh, andrew!â you stared in awe, the small âpâ pendant catching your attention as popeâs chest bloomed with pride. âdo you like it?â he couldnât help but ask, needing the reassurance that he did something good.
you nodded, a high pitched squeal leaving your lips as you threw your arms around him and littered his face with kisses. âitâs perfect, i love it so much!â pope felt relieved upon getting your approval, his skin flushing as you swung your leg over his lap and straddled him. handing over the anklet, pope watched as you inspected itâ fascination written all over your face. âyouâll only be able to wear it around the house for now since people will be on the lookout for it, so donât forget not to go out with it on or anything.â pope explained, his rough palms skimming the tops of your thighs as you hummed. âcan you put it on for me?â you asked, handing the anklet back over. âiâm glad you asked, i was hoping to see it in action..â
at his words, your eyebrows knitted in confusion. âwhat do you mean?â
âandyâ!â you cried, choking out a sob as pope forced your knees to be pinned to your chest, your ankles on either side of his head. hiccuping with each harsh thrust inside your cunt, pope eyed the diamonds clasped around your ankle, a groan rumbling from his chest as the pendant winked back at him in the form of a twinkle. you gripped your bedsheets, your eyes screwing shut at the pleasurable force his cock was hitting your cervix. âah, fuckkk,â pope drawled out, his chest heaving up and down, âare you sure you like it?â you didnât know if he was talking about the absolute pounding he was giving you right now, or the string of diamonds adorning your ankle, but to say you loved both would be an understatement.
âyesâ i love it so much!â you screamed when he repositioned your knees to the mattress, his body now flushed against your own as his lips rested by your ear. âi thought about you all day.â pope said through gritted teeth, his lips ghosting your earlobe as he spoke. âdid you think about me?â he asked, his voice carrying a small hint of insecurity. tangling your fingers in his curls, you made sure to look him in the eyes when you said your next words. âi think about you all the time, andrew.â his thrusts slowed down, his gaze flickering over the features of your face. âyou worry me sick every time you go out on a job,â you stroked his flushed cheeks with your thumbs, âiâm scared one day you wonât come back to me.â
pope canât remember anyone who truly worried for him and cared for him like you did, your words doing more than just tugging at his heartstrings. you gasped when you felt his cock twitch inside of you, thick ropes of hot cum filling you up in no time as pope grew desperate to give you an orgasm of your own. aching with overstimulation, pope shuddered as he continued rocking into you, the long, slow strokes of his hips paired with his rough fingertips on your clit making you tremble and shake. studying you closely, pope watched as your teeth pulled on your bottom lip, your skin growing hot as the coil in your tummy grew tighter and tighter. âandrew..â you whispered breathlessly, gazing up at pope through your lashes.
pope knew that look all too well, his fingers working relentlessly as he brought you over the edge, your thighs clamping tight around his hand. âkeep them open, baby, just let it happen.â pope forced your thighs open, his lips ghosting over yours as tears slipped down your cheeks. you could never get used to the size of him, his length hitting you in places you had never felt before he came along. your blood was rushing through your ears, your limbs falling weak as you gave into pope and let him have his way with you. nails digging into his flesh, you tapped out as soon as the pleasure subsided and a dull ache began to form on your sensitive clit. âno more, no more!â you cried out, your hips instinctively backing away.
pope pulled out with a slick pop, a groan leaving his lips as he watched you clench around nothing, the sight of your abused cunt making him curse under his breath. you laid there, fucked out into oblivion and brainless, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm. leaving you for a moment, pope went to get something to clean you up with, his hands working gently to put you back at ease. eventually, your breathing slowed and all you can feel was pope tucking you against his chest, his large hands running soothingly down your back as he brought your comforter up to cover both of you. âplease donât get into that pretty head of yours so much,â he kissed your temple, âiâll always come back to you.â
pairing: pope cody x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
summary: you're dragged to pope's boxing match, not having ever been told that he does this in his spare time and now you have to confront your fears and the fact that your boyfriend spends his time doing such a violent activity.
content warnings: established relationship, reader is implied to have had a bad past slash childhood, reader has a fear of yelling + anger, mention of blood and cuts, tw smurf!!!!!
a/n: hai my lovelies! i am back with my second pope fic!!! i haven't had this much fun writing for a character in ages <3 also i couldn't decide on whether i should refer to him as pope or andrew so now there's a mix of it. gif credits to @wesandresons !! <3 credit to @cursed-carmine for the divider <3
wc: 4.9k
You hated the word naive, despite that, it felt simply too suitable for the person you were.
You were naive when you never asked Pope why he came home with bruises, and you were naive when you let it go after he blamed the job. When you chose to enter Smurf's vehicle, you were particularly foolish. You appeared to be, just like all her kids, susceptible to falling for her manipulative tactics.
And now that you were standing next to her chair, you figured that the only important thing to her right now was making you uncomfortable.
Unsure of your purpose in the hall of loud, angry men you turned your attention to the group around the boxing ring. This wasn't your scene in any shape, way or form. You didn't like loud noises, boxing and especially loud irate boxers.
Smurf knew that, which is why you made an effort to look normal, despite the men next to you cursing like they'd never been allowed to before. Like a baby you wanted to press your hands to your ears and hide in the corner.
"What are we waiting for?" you asked quietly.
"You'll see baby, you'll see," Smurf tilted her head as she observed the crowd with sharp eyes. Baby. That's how you knew something was wrong. She only ever used her saccharine voice combined with that nickname when she was out to get you.
Pope kept you far far away from her for precisely this reason. Why you and Pope almost never came to visit unless it was necessary for a job. You'd tried to tell him that he didn't have to go back to Smurf, that he could just work with his brothers, but he was adamant. So you let him, because you weren't one to tell Pope what to do.
You felt something stare into the side of your face and when you glanced to your left, you saw a disheveled man with a beer in his hand and a sick smile. You quickly straightened your back and moved closer to Smurf's chair, praying this would all end.
Andrew will be furious when he finds out, you thought, as you repeatedly started snapping your hair tie against your wrist over and over again. You shook your head to yourself. He won't have to find out...right?
This was all a mess. A mess Smurf was more than happy to create as she took a look at you. Nervous, uncomfortable and scared â she had you exactly where she wanted.
Your hands were itching to grab your earphones from your bag as soon as the first boxers were announced. When the first boxer entered the ring, men cheered and you turned your head away from the man's terrifying expression.
You, instead resorted to checking out the crowd. There was a small group of women, but they appeared to be just as bloodthirsty as everyone else. No one seemed as out of place as you did.
You pulled the edge of your shorts down, wishing you had brought a jacket with you. Who would've thought a boxing ring would be this chilly? Goosebumps were rising everywhere where your white sweetheart neck top wasn't covering your skin.
"Baby," Smurf said, and you felt your stomach turn at the nickname. "Look."
You felt the world tilt around you the moment you spotted Andrew sitting in the corner, hands covered in his boxing gloves. You watched him get to his feet, and move toward the center of the ring. He didn't see you, and you were glad for it. You were especially glad for it when you watched Andrew start beating his opponent.
Hit after hit after hit.
The crowd kept cheering, fists pumping in the air while your hands started shaking more by the second. It was when the opponent hit Andrews' face, that you turned and walked out of the ring. Not hearing Smurf's snake-like voice calling after you mockingly.
You walked and walked and walked, not even caring that Smurf had driven you here. She'd practically begged for your help on something, coming by you and Andrew's apartment. Sweet naive you thought, yeah, I'm sure she needs actual help. She hardly ever begged beg for anything. God, you had been so wrong. This was a sick, twisted game. Of course, it was.
You had no idea how or when you'd ended up in your apartment. You kicked off your ballet flats to the opposite side of the apartment, before sliding down the door.
Andrew was boxing in his spare time. Naturally the jobs had nothing to do with the bruises you spent all of your free afternoons tending to. He'd never been this hurt before. Why would he be now? You would've never thought he spent his free time raging and hitting people. That he was capable of this much force and anger. You could still see his face behind your eyelids, and you pressed the bottom of your hands harder against your eyes until stars replaced your boyfriend's bruised face.
Your head dropped to your knees as you sat there for ages and ages. Andrew lied to you. He has been lying to you for god knows how long.
You felt sick and even more, you felt guilty. Because you were terrified. Not only had he lied to you, but he'd also lied about being this violent. You hated how much that scared you. How much you wanted to cry.
You were aware that Pope wasn't a man of the most gentle nature, but he tried to with you.
In fact, he was at his most gentle with you. Sure, you'd seen a different side of him when he was with Smurf. In fact, that was seemingly his most aggressive side, but otherwise? Otherwise, he was the man who was so nervous on your first date, he didn't say a single word besides hello. The man who'd spent the first sleepovers at your place, lying on the edge of the bed, afraid of touching you, terrified of making you uncomfortable. You had spent so much time caring for Lena together, taking her out on ice-cream dates and getting to know what he was like as an Uncle. He spoiled you rotten.
You had never once uttered a dream of yours, without having it fulfilled promptly. Not only that, but you knew his most significant sacrifice had been his temper. He knew how much you struggled with raised voices, how you'd immediately shrink the moment someone directed their anger at you.
The first times, you'd somehow ended up in the same room as the Cody boys while they planned jobs, Andrew would just stand up and leave the room the moment someone disagreed with him. You still remember Craig's perplexed "What's up with him?" You'd questioned Andrew about it later that night, because as far as you'd been concerned, Craig had been rather unpleasant to him, you'd expected your boyfriend to fight back.
Andrew had simply pulled you closer to his chest in bed, brushing his palm along your waist. "Didn't want to make you sad." he'd muttered against your hair.
"What?" you'd asked puzzled, lifting your head off his chest.
"You don't like yelling. It makes you sad."
"You did that for me?"
"Of course." he'd said, eyebrows furrowed, because who else would it be for? For who else would he change such an integral part of himself? He'd been the brother with the temper since he could think. Pope, the boy who hit and yelled at everyone.
He'd changed himself for you,and not only that, he'd taken a jab at his pride for you, allowing his brother to corner him in front of everyone, and he had just let him. For you.
It made you feel horrible that he had to change himself for you, but he'd told you that he felt better about himself, like he was actually worthy of you. Your life was peaceful and domestic, interrupted by the occasional job which usually went down flawlessly.
It wasn't until Lena was back from the foster home and then put back in, that Andrew was different, and you'd just assumed it was because of him missing Lena. But it was all weird. He was different, came home with bruises and was more quiet than usual. But never ever any less gentle with you.
You hated that the sight of him in the boxing ring managed to erase every single tender touch of his. All you could hear was the shattering of the man's face as your boyfriend continued to hammer him.
Your boyfriend punched someone until they were bleeding raw on the floor, and he did it with such vehemence that you weren't sure you'd ever be able to get rid of the image. You'd heard chatter about his violent side from his brothers, and he'd told you about it himself, but witnessing it for yourself was different.
You slowly rose up on unsteady legs and walked towards the shower. The shower calmed you down. Hot water streaming down your body, helping you forget about Andrew for just a few minutes.
That was until you stepped back into your shared bedroom and instinctively reached for his clothes. You grabbed a shirt and his boxers, and when Andrew's scent hit your nose, you flinched. You stared down at his shirt, and you wanted to pull it off. Crack crack crack was all you could hear. The yelling of the men in your head cushioned the sound of Andrew opening the door.
You were about to pull his shirt off, grab one of your own pajama shirts instead, when Andrew gently tapped on the door not wanting to startle you. You still flinched, turning to see his face. And terror was written large there.
Smurf had told him.
You managed a tiny "Hi." but there was no smile or kiss. You merely stood next to the drawers, your hand returning back to your hair tie, snapping it against your wrist over and over again.
You knew Andrew was just as scared, his fingers were twitching nervously, as he stared at you. "Hey," he gently approached you and when you didn't step away, he drew even closer. He cautiously placed his bag down on top of the drawer, before turning to you.
There was a small band aid on his right cheek, and you felt your heart break when you realized it was the one you usually kept in your car in case of an emergency. He had clearly attempted to fix most of the wounds before entering your apartment so you wouldn't see how severely the other guy had injured him.
The fear was written big in his eyes. You almost wanted to just give in, but your mind didn't let you. Fear was gripping your body just as much as it was his. Seeing what he was capable of was freezing your body. It's like it never mattered that you loved him more than anything else in the world; your mind just insisted on replaying the boxing match on loop.
Andrew could tell you weren't going to come any closer to him anytime soon, so he closed his hands into fists, turning towards the bathroom. And you just let him. You could practically hear his heart breaking as he turned on the water, and you knew he had his head pressed against the tile, because that's what he always did when someone wrecked him.
You padded towards the kitchen, opened your freezer and grabbed some ice. Your brain was both empty and full, but it was largely packed with cruel words at yourself. You were horrible. You were terrible for shutting him out like this when he hadn't done anything to you.
But you couldn't help it. You felt a tear slide down your cheek, and you leaned your head back, trying to suck it up. You weren't supposed to be acting like this. You were a grown woman, not a child. You weren't supposed to resort to childish habits, making yourself small and shut down, stop talking. God, he didn't do anything, you kept telling yourself as you shut your eyes tight.
You didn't hear him approach you. "You want me to make you dinner?"
You turned, ice in hand and shut the freezer with your back. "No, not hungry," you replied quietly. You stepped closer, and could see Andrew's body freeze up as he waited for you to do something. You stretched out your hand with the ice. "For your bruises."
Andrew stared down at your hand before taking it carefully. "Thank you," he murmured, eyes glancing back up at you.
When he saw your hands trembling, he wanted to cry. He swiftly turned and walked back into the bedroom, before he could hurt you any further. You remained in the kitchen for a few minutes, before gradually following him. Sleeping on the couch was too much. You're safe with him, nothings wrong, he won't yell at you, you kept thinking, slowly padding back into the bedroom.
That's until you spotted his wet curly hair in the corner of your shared room, reaching inside his bag. "Are you packing?" you asked, confused.
Andrew straightened up, turning his body towards you. "I know what you saw today. Andâ" You could see him thinking about Smurf, anger rising in his throat. "And I'm sorry," he added, deciding not to acknowledge Smurf's existence.
"It's your hobby," you replied quietly. "I wish you'd just told me about it."
Andrew shook his head. "Not a hobby," he muttered, and then provided the only answer you needed. "Smurf," and it clicked. Of course, Smurf forced him into it.
Your gaze dropped back down to his bag. "You don't need to leave."
"I scared you."
"You didn't," you whispered.
"Don't lie to me." he scoffed, and you pursed your lip. Right.
You didn't look at him as you slipped beneath the covers of the bed. It was your only way of proving to him, and yourself, that you weren't scared.
He stared at you for a while, and you didn't glance at him. Instead, you pulled the covers up, reaching for his side and pushing the covers back. He stared at his side of the bed before he slowly slipped under them and pulled them up too. The two of you laid on your backs for a while, staring at the same ceiling.
There was no sweet touching, no shared gentle kisses, no Andrew listening to you ramble about your day, nothing.
You missed him, and you glanced down at his hand, lying above the cover, twitching nervously. You wanted to touch it, press a kiss against every bruised knuckle, but then you heard the groans of his opponent again and you shuddered against the bed sheets.
"The â the other boxer is fine," he said quietly. "I know it looked bad." He turned his head, the sheets rustling as he looked at you.
"It was bad." slipped out of your mouth, and you bit your lip hard.
You could practically feel the panic rise in him. "I know, butâ he just had a couple bruises. Heâ he didn't even have to go to the hospital." He knew it was a low bar. So terribly low, but he needed you to come back to him. He couldn't lose you.
You stayed quiet and Andrew wanted to cry. This was bad. Of course, Smurf wouldn't even let him keep you. She'd take everything from him, this would always be the way his life would work. He thought maybe this time it would be different. This time he could change for you, And he did. He tried so hard to be different, but it was never enough. Nothing ever would be. It seemed there was something in him, something evil and dark, that scared everyone off.
"Did you win?" you asked, even though you knew the answer. Andrew stayed quiet and you knew. "You're good at what you do," you whispered.
What he does. Punch people? Hurt people? Make people bleed? Cause pain? Andrew didn't reply, staring at the ceiling.
He wanted to leave, and so he pushed the covers away, but you reached for his arm immediately, gripping his still-wet bicep. "Don't leave," you whispered, and he turned to look at you.
"You don't want me there."
"I didn't say that."
Andrew leaned his back against the headboard, and you sat up slowly, crossing your legs. He waited as he stared at you, expecting some explanation for your disorienting behavior.
"You scared me," you whispered, and you could see Andrew's finger twitch in his lap. You could see him itching to disappear. He'd scared you. He'd scared you.
He felt sick. "You just kept hitting him. Even when he was on the ground," you whispered. "And I know that'sâthat's how boxing works, but I'm just â I've never seen you like that," you stared at your hands in your lap, before looking up again, and this time you almost seemed mad at him, an emotion he'd almost never had directed at him from you before." You lied to me, Andrew." you gritted out through your teeth. "You've been lying to me for months."
Andrew looked away at that, feeling disgusted by himself. Foreseeing what was about to come he looked down at the soft covers under him, felt your warmth, that he could sense despite the space between you. His eyes glanced towards you, in your sweet and pretty pajamas, and he wished he'd appreciated this more.
Not that he hadn't before, but fear had always lingered in the background. Fear that he'd hurt you and that you'd leave him. That Smurf would take you. He wished he had just taken hours to just sit there, and live in the moment with you, push everyone away and just appreciate that you were here with him. He wanted to cry.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly again, avoiding your eyes.
You stared at him, and then you bit your lip, counting to ten. You could do this. This was your sweet Andrew. He'd never raised his voice at you, never. This is what you kept repeating over and over again to yourself, as you pushed the covers away.
Andrew watched you pad into the bathroom, heard you open drawers and close them, before you came back into the room, rounding the bed until you were on his side. There, you grabbed the ice he'd left on the night table, and handed it to him.
"Press it to your right temple," you murmured, and then you just climbed into his lap. One knee on each side of his thigh. His thigh twitched under yours nervously, and you had to hold yourself on his left shoulder to not fall off.
You carefully opened the first aid kit, keeping it on the bed. Your hand on his shoulder lightly traveled up to his face, turning it towards you, like he wasn't already staring at you. Andrew's hand fell limp against the bed, ice too. The bed sheets turning dark, as the ice melted.
Before he knew it, he was desperately reaching for your hips, pulling you closer. You were touching him. You were in his lap and you were taking care of him. You didn't leave. He felt his breath quicken, like he was about to cry.
Meanwhile, you wordlessly grabbed a cotton pad, applied some anti septic on it and pressed it lightly to his cheek. He could feel your hands shaking and how much strength it was taking you to not succumb to your fear. To not let your mind convince you to get into your car right now and just drive away.
Andrew let his hands travel up and down on your waist and under your shirt, squeezing your soft waist. You squirmed, when you felt his cold hands, but then relaxed into the oh so familiar touch. His calloused fingertips tapped your ribs restlessly as he watched you with his big hazel eyes.
You were so gentle and he was sure there were tears in his eyes. His eyes felt really warm and his throat felt tight. You stopped cleaning for just one second, eyes darting to his face, and you gave him such a sweet smile, that the tears dried immediately. You weren't leaving. You weren't leaving.
Once you were done, you set everything aside, and just slumped down in his lap, hands resting on his hard stomach.
"I'm sorry for letting Smurf drag me there." You avoided his eyes, ashamed of letting her manipulate you. You stared down at his stomach, wondering how blue and purple his ribs were. You'd probably hear him wince in his sleep all night. You never told him about this habit, worried about scaring him off.
"Not your fault."
You stayed quiet for a while, taking the chance to properly see how truly in pain he was. He was good at hiding it, but you knew Andrew. He wasn't going to wince, or cry out. He'd live in the pain and say he deserved it. That it's fine. That he hurt you and his opponent which meant he deserved to suffer.
You watched his big hazel eyes as they scanned you, watching you for every shift in your face. You felt sick that you'd done this to him, that you let Smurf do this to the two of you. Andrew had tried so hard to keep away from her twisted traps and yet you fell in anyways. Of course you did. You were vulnerable and sensitive and she knew that. You wanted to cry for the fact that he had to put up with her, and with you.
"I know I'm not easy," you whispered after a while, your voice breaking. "I'm sorry you had toâto change so many things about yourself because of me. And I'm sorry for all of this." You brushed a tear from your face. "I know it's not easy to deal with me and my -" you waved a hand in the air. "My sensitivity." You grimaced.
"I like dealing with you." Andrew said after a long pause, where he'd waited to see if you wanted to say anything else. He knows you hadn't always been heard by the people in your life, so he tried hard to give you the space you needed.
You chuckled wetly, and his lips lifted for a second. "I didn't change things about me." His eyebrows furrowed because he wasn't sure how you'd gotten there. "I'm just trying to be good. For you," he titled his head, trying to catch your eyes. "You don't like yelling, so I don't yell. You don't like fighting, so I don't fight." You shot him a look then, and he guiltily added. "In front of you."
He paused, finger tapping restlessly against your waist, making you squirm for a second. "I like being good for you. I can sleep better, and it makes waking up easier," he sounded so earnest, and you wanted to cry then and there. "I don't know what I'd do without you." he said slowly, as if also now comprehending how much you meant to him.
He squeezed your side anxiously. "IâI don't want you to be afraid of me. I would never hurt you, and what you saw today was justâ it's not who I am when I'm with you."
It was silent for a while. You could hear an owl outside, waves washing against the shore and a dog barking. The waves calmed Andrew down, helped him sleep. Or at least that's what he told you. You weren't so sure now. He sounded so very sincere when he said he slept better with you.
You fixed a curl for him, lightly pushing it aside, before you dropped your hand again. "I don't want to see that again," you said in a low voice. "If you wantâyou can keep doing it, but I don't want to see it,"
Andrew shook his head. "I'll quit," he said, hands traveling up your waist again. "I'll get my money tomorrow, and I'llâ I'll get you whatever you want, and I'll never do it again."
You didn't say anything and Andrew worried that he'd been too eager, too much. But then you finally spoke. "Do you like boxing?" You jabbed a finger into his chest. "Don't lie."
Andrew pressed his lips tight together. "I likeâ" he glanced up at you, worried that'll make your fear worse, make you scared of him even more, but you seemed so open to anything he had to say that he spoke the truth. "âhitting stuff." He finished the sentence. "I don't like to hurt people."
You nodded slowly as if you'd expected that answer and brushed a hand over his shoulder. "We'll use the money to get you a boxing set again. Punching bag, gloves, the whole thing," you pondered. "I think there's a great shop downtown for boxing equipment. I walked past it a bunch of times. We can set everything up in the backyard. That way you can hit stuff, but not hurt people,"
"That doesn't scare you?," he asked, already thinking how intense he got when he was allowed to hit stuff.
"I don't know," you went quiet again, toying with his neckline. "Maybe." Your eyes flickered up towards him. "I justâI don't like all that hitting stuff, you know?"
You looked terrified to be telling him this. So far, throughout your relationship, he's always had to pick up on it, never had you outright tell him. "And that combined with yelling?" You shook your head, already getting scared at the idea. "Justâjust reminds me of bad stuff." You whispered. "And I know you won't hurt me like ever." You reassured him noting the way he was getting progressively nervous about the image you had of him in your mind.
"But it scares me that you could." It sounded so stupid to you. Like a child. But Andrew understood more than he let on. "ThatâThat all this anger could one day be directed at me, that one day you'll just want to be this angry and violent with me." You brushed a tear away, before Andrew had the chance too.
He straightened up a bit, pulling you closer, as his hands traveled down to your hips. He was unsure how to say what he wanted to say. "IâI love you," he said, and your eyes shot to his.
You knew he did, but he oh so rarely ever did say it. He made you feel loved regardless, so you never had the desire to hear it constantly. It made it even more special, when he'd whisper it in bed after a rough day, and you were half asleep. So for him to say it so outright while you were staring him right in the eye, was special to say the least.
"I would never hurt you," he pressed his fingers harder into your hips, not enough to hurt you, as he thought about his next words. "You don't have to believe me, i justâI want you to know that I wouldn't."
He hated that he wasn't capable of saying more, that he didn't know how to, but when you smiled at him, all teary eyed and a soft smile, he knew he had done well enough. That his best, was always enough for you. That he never had to reach this impossible bar with you. That all you asked of him was that he minded your fears, the way you minded his.
"I love you too," you whispered, before your arms came around his neck, and you pressed your face into his warm body. His arms tightened around your waist, as he squeezed his eyes shut. You smelled like vanilla, and he finally felt his heartbeat slow down, as you scraped your fingers lightly against his still wet hair.
You were still worried you were being possessive, ripping him away from things he loved. That you were like Smurf, so you spoke, breath hitting his collarbone.
"Youâyou won't hate me for this, right?" you whispered. Andrew squeezed your waist.
"You're doing me a favor." he whispered, and he meant it. No boxing meant less guilt, less disgust for himself. He wouldn't have to lie to you anymore, and he wouldn't have to live in fear that you'd find out. He'd see Smurf less, and have to stop listening to her talk about what a bad influence you were on him. How he was getting soft with you, how his loyalty should always be with his family first.
Now he'd be able to hug you without hiding groans of pain, he'd be able to feel your gentle kisses across his face without having you be worried about his bloody cuts.
older bf!jack abbot who canât keep his hands off of you..
content warning: smut - breast play, like, all breast play. jack calling reader âsweetheart, baby, angelâ, dom!jack, jack being obsessed with your breasts.
a/n: not proofread! giving yâall something while i work on my prompt requests!
masterlist
jack abbot always had a particular love for your breasts and you never knew why.
he could happily spend hours on end alternating between kneading them in his rough hands and sucking your nipples into his wet mouth, tracing them teasingly with his tongue.
he bought various different bras in different colours and designs simply because he loves to see them âall dolled upâ. it made you embarrassed at times. your cheeks would flush a soft pink as you lay out in front of him, his eyes locked onto your chest exclusively. âtheyâre so beautiful, sweetheart. theyâre looking so pretty in their lace.â he cooed, groping them tenderly over the fabric.
âj- jack.â you flushed, hiding your bright face behind your hands. âwhat, baby? iâm admiring you.â he stated, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before turning his attention to your breasts.
instead of undoing the clasp, he opted to pull the cups down and let them spill free. jack groaned at the sight heâd seen a million times yet would never get tired of. âiâm gonna give them the attention they deserve.â he promised before leaning down to suckle on your right breast, squeezing the other with his free hand.
you whined, hands reaching to grasp at the greying hair on his head. âj- jack, fuck.â you gasped. this was a familiar game you both played. jack sucking on your tits, pleasuring himself more than you, and you getting lulled into a steady stream of bliss.
you could feel jacks smile growing on you as you yawned. âsleepy, huh?â he murmured, pulling off your swollen nipple to meet your eyes. you shook your head, rubbing your eyes with a fist. ââs okay, angel. you can sleep. iâve gotcha.â he reassured softly. this is always how it went. you hummed groggily, nestling into the sheets as jack resumed his place on your chest.
âTeachers are often unaware of the gender distribution of talk in their classrooms. They usually consider that they give equal amounts of attention to girls and boys, and it is only when they make a tape recording that they realize that boys are dominating the interactions. Dale Spender, an Australian feminist who has been a strong advocate of female rights in this area, noted that teachers who tried to restore the balance by deliberately âfavouringâ the girls were astounded to find that despite their efforts they continued to devote more time to the boys in their classrooms. Another study reported that a male science teacher who managed to create an atmosphere in which girls and boys contributed more equally to discussion felt that he was devoting 90 per cent of his attention to the girls. And so did his male pupils. They complained vociferously that the girls were getting too much talking time. In other public contexts, too, such as seminars and debates, when women and men are deliberately given an equal amount of the highly valued talking time, there is often a perception that they are getting more than their fair share. Dale Spender explains this as follows: âThe talkativeness of women has been gauged in comparison not with men but with silence. Women have not been judged on the grounds of whether they talk more than men, but of whether they talk more than silent women.â In other words, if women talk at all, this may be perceived as âtoo muchâ by men who expect them to provide a silent, decorative background in many social contexts.â
â
PBS: Language as Prejudice - Myth #6: Women Talk Too Much (via misandry-mermaid)
Every EVERY womenâs studies class Iâve been in has had this problem and failed to address it.Â
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
